Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rain has always been a part of Wriothesley's life, his constant companion. Most major milestones he's lived through have been accompanied by heavy downpours, the skies themselves sympathizing with the derelict state of his messy life. From his birth to his exile, a series of misfortunes, heartbreaks, and disasters have followed him until one day, he has found himself standing in front of the very man who will change his life forever.

Most major milestones have been accompanied by rain… save one.

 "Congratulations."

The Iudex had smiled at him then, a small and rare moment in itself. His eyes had shone pleasantly like baubles in the sunlight filtering into the white, blue, and gold room and perfectly capturing a picturesque moment – a justice sitting on his throne, delivering a sentence worth hearing; and an exile, at center stage, listening to the verdict washing away his sins, his past, and cleansing him anew.

"You have found something you wish to do at last, I see."

Guilty as charged, but Wriothesley's only response back then had been a smile.

They say that if you cannot find the Chief Justice at the Palais Mermonia, then he sometimes can be found standing somewhere close to the sea, watching the ebb and flow of the ocean tides. Many people over the years have managed to gather some courage to ask, the whys, whats, and hows, but the Chief Justice is silent and stalwart throughout, a sentinel guarding the secrets close to his heart, never letting anyone in.

He remains just so during the years Wriothesley has worked alongside him, so focused on nothing else but his duty that there leaves very little room for much else. On any normal human, it's unsustainable – humans are social creatures, after all – but Neuvillette has never been normal, and any sane Fontainian with a decent brain cell will know that.

This is why, when Wriothesley finds him by the shoreline of the Liffey Region, close to what would have been the Callas line station, had it not been laid to waste by the Fontaine Research Institute's explosion, he doesn't have it in him to even act surprised.

"Fancy seeing you here, Monsieur Neuvillette."

"...Your Grace." Neuvillette turns his head to him after a small pause, but before anything else is said by either of them, his attention is grabbed by something shiny floating above the water, washed away by the tides and into the sand next to his boots.

Wriothesley approaches quietly while Neuvillette bends down to pick up a Lumitoile, brushing the excess sand away with his gloves. He is awfully gentle to the little sea creature in his hands, with an… intriguing expression Wriothesley hasn't seen on his face before. If only his long hair billowing in the wind didn't get in the way of Wriothesley discerning the rest of Neuvillette's expressions… but he makes for a lovely sight, regardless. Wriothesley is half-reminded of the myths about water nymphs rising from the ocean's depths, beholden with an otherworldly glow that shines like moonlit lanterns that traverse the dark oceans to light the way for wayward humans.

"If you would be so kind, Your Grace, this Lumitoile would fare better the closer they are to your Fortress than in these shores." He hands over the starfish to Wriothesley, who takes it – he's a little confused, but he can roll with the punches. "They are remarkable agents that can be used against pollution and industrial waste."

"They glow in the dark, too," Wriothesley jokes. It's wet and slimy in his hands, but it's nothing compared to other things he's held in his hands before – like blood. "They like clinging to the Fortress' outer walls."

"That they do." Neuvillette nods. "Ah, I apologize if my request is too untoward. I… wasn't expecting you, or it. I acted out of impulse when I saw you both."

"You apologize for everything, even when you don't have to," Wriothesley notes. "Impulsivity isn't a bad thing."

"So you say." Neuvillette hums, obviously disagreeing but too polite and formal to say it. "If I may ask, what brings you here? I don't often see you above ground."

"I like taking walks under the sun when I can, so I took the scenic route back to the Fortress after ordering some supplies at Palais Mermonia," he answers simply. "The Gestionnaires are steadfast with the paperwork, mind you, but sometimes they need… hm, an in-person, one-on-one conversation. Yeah, let's go with that."

Neuvillette gives him a look, and wow, what a stern look that is. "Your Grace."

"It's Wriothesley." Wriothesley just can't help but poke the bear, so to speak. "Ah, no need to give me that face! Sometimes I just need to see them in person so that I can better explain what I need and why I need those things for the Fortress. Having all the confusion cleared up is much more palatable to me than outright, ignorant rejection because an office worker can't discern my Fs from my Ts."

"I believe you're implying that they need to see a tangible reason to approve your requests." Neuvillette cuts to the chase, ostensibly never letting Wriothesley have some fun with how much he scares the Iudex's employees. "The reason being your rather intimidating aura, coupled with rumors that you're an ex-underground pugilist, along with their knowledge that you were once an inmate, now the highest-ranking fortress manager after inciting an internal revolt."

"I mean, it's not a rumor,  since I love to box." Wriothesley isn't ashamed of his past, especially about something he loves. "But hey now, that's not what I meant! …unless you're using that as an excuse to compliment me. By all means, please do continue."

"Most people would not consider being called intimidating a compliment."

"I'm the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide," Wriothesley reminds him. "Being intimidating is a valuable trait to have."

"You make a fair point."

"I always do."

"Indeed."

Talk about killing it in the art of small talk. Wriothesley stands next to Neuvillette, mindful of the man's personal space and the waves splashing water on his heeled boots. "So… Can I ask what brings you here? Is there anything I can help you with?"

Neuvillette… actually looks surprised by his offer, if his fast blinking can be noted down as an expression of surprise. "You're very kind, Your Grace," he replies coolly. "I'm only here to observe the sea."

"...I'm not, you know." Neuvillette turns to him, his eyebrows raised in silent question. He elaborates, "Kind. You just said I'm very intimidating, too."

To that, Neuvillette's expression visibly changes, passing amusement brightening his face temporarily. He looks at Wriothesley as though he said something funny – which, for fucking once, he did not – and it shows all the more in his eyes, twinkling like stars lifted over the horizon as the sun sets and the hues of the sky slowly turn from a muted purple to pitch black.

Wriothesley doesn't quite know what to feel about the fact that all this is happening at his own expense, but he finds overall that it doesn't matter, as long as he can continue pulling emotions like this from Neuvillette again.

"I beg to differ," Neuvillette tells him resolutely. "Rather, I believe the Melusines will have more to say on the matter, should they ever hear you say such a silly thing. I'm inclined to side with them on most things."

"...The Melusines talk to you about me."

He figures that Sigewinne does since she's technically assigned to the Fortress by Neuvillette himself. But the others?

"They do," Neuvillette confirms. "They are wonderful creatures, with special eyes that can read even the most indiscernible individual. They see the world differently from humans; if you do not think of yourself as kind, but the Melusines talk of nothing but your kindness, then perhaps you should look into their perspectives to see who's right and who's wrong."

It doesn't really matter to Wriothesley, this little back and forth.

Of course, other people might call him a kind person, a good person – but others won't. What he is, and what he wants to be, is just and fair, as something now of a spokesperson for the people that live outside of the comforts of a regular Fontainian native, as an exile himself under the service of the law, he wants nothing more than justice to be served, in all the ways that it can be.

Melusines are rather different, however, and Wriothesley recognizes this, the way he's always known them to be beautiful, kind, and pure . His memories of Melusines range from those who brought him food when he had nothing and lived in the streets; to those who looked at him with warm eyes even when he had blood in his hands; to the carefree cheerfulness in which he's now greeted, a friendly face that always indulges them when they see him.

But these are not things he knows how to tell Neuvillette, for words cannot quite express the depth of his gratitude and affection for these creatures that have been nothing but good to him even when he had nothing to offer in return. He's the last person to be afraid of talking about his feelings, but to this… just give him a moment, please.

He clears his throat, hoping that Neuvillette doesn't go further down this line of thought for now. He makes a vague attempt at changing the subject. "What's so special about the sea, then? People see you sometimes, looking at something in the distance."

"I… simply enjoy observing the waters," Neuvillette replies, after a moment.

"Really?"

Neuvillette purses his lips. "There is nothing wrong with it."

"I didn't mean to imply that," Wriothesley says soothingly. "What I meant to say was… I feel that 'observing' is too passive a hobby for a guy like you. Is there really no more to it than that?"

"What is 'a guy like me' supposed to imply?" Wriothesley hesitates. Neuvillette sighs. "Your honesty would be appreciated, Your Grace."

"The burden of duty and responsibility on your shoulders… it must be so heavy, even for you."

Wriothesley sees it immediately, the hitch in Neuvillette's breath as he breathes in a little too quickly, his shoulders rising imperceptibly, and his plush mouth opening just a little in quiet shock. Even in such a state, with a completely new expression that doesn't match his usual image of a stoic judge, Wriothesley still finds him beautiful, and wondrously inscrutable.

He knows that he's likely stepping on something a little too personal, but he can't help but be curious, testing the waters to see how far he can push the Chief Justice to open up to him, the way Neuvillette has done to him just a moment earlier.

Archons, they really are a pair, aren't they? Though Neuvillette's words earlier were honestly delivered, Wriothesley's inquiries now are deliberate — he wants to know everything.

"You're strong, Neuvillette. You have my wholehearted admiration for everything that you've done for Fontaine. You've carried this burden and passed impartial judgment over all of us to help wash away everyone's sins. I'm the perfect example of that, aren't I?"

There's quiet acknowledgment between them when their eyes meet, the knowledge of Wriothesley's life coated in blood and tears, anger and sorrow. But he is no longer the man he was, with Neuvillette being the first to accept him as he is.

"I just wanna know who you are, that's all." Wriothesley continues. "As the man I work with, as the person I respect the most." As the man who accepts me as I am. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"And you say that you are not kind… Wriothesley." Neuvillette's eyes stray away and down, back to the shallow waters. "I will offer you one truth if you offer yours in return."

"You drive a hard bargain, Monsieur." Wriothesley chuckles warmly. "It's a deal."

"If I could be free of my burdens, caring not for the consequences even for just one day," Neuvillette says softly, a hushed sound amplified by the echoing waters, "I would spend all my time basking in the waters of Fontaine. I cannot be so selfless, so I linger by the edge of the waters and look out into the sea. The freedom of choice within my grasp… yet so far away, always."

"The Melusines were there for me when I had nothing, and when I was nothing," Wriothesley offers just as quietly, recognizing the gravitas of the confession of the Chief Justice of Fontaine himself. "I've been given kindness in excess, and to this day it is a selfless gift offered to me – without any need for superficial reason, without burdens or contracts, and without a need to reciprocate. I'm not a selfless person, in truth – but partly because of them, I try to be sometimes."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Neuvillette says quietly, shortly after letting their admissions sink in for both of them.

"You said my name once, already." Wriothesley teases, in an attempt to lighten the mood. "You've my permission to say it again, any time you like."

"Wriothesley." His name is beautiful coming out of Neuvillette's mouth, a melodious sound that calls to him like a siren of the deep. "You already call me by my name, without my permission if I may add."

"Oops," Wriothesley says, unapologetic.

Neuvillette shakes his head. "It does not bother me. I merely pointed it out because I do not know what else to offer you in return."

Wriothesley scratches his chin with the hand not holding on to the Lumitoile (and would you look at that, he hasn't forgotten about the little creature after all), faking thoughtfulness. "How about we start with one of my favorite things to do in the world? I recently got a fancy batch of Mondstadian Dandelion tea that I've been dying to try out with someone. Would you care to accompany me back to the Fortress for some afternoon tea?"

"In that case, it would be my pleasure."

Long days and nights spent at the Fortress make one ignorant of the comings and goings of the world above, though Wriothesley tries to stay in touch with news from the overworld as much as possible so as not to miss important moments and milestones. Fontainians mark the passing of days by recounting the important trials that occur under the watchful eyes of the Iudex, while residents of the Fortress do the same through the arrival of new residents. What is thought of as an exile up there, is considered a 'rebirth' down here.

The dichotomy between the two worlds doesn't bother Wriothesley, though it does generate the occasional surprise when he visits above ground and finds himself completely clueless about what dates are supposed to signify which holiday until he sees all the decorations within the walls of the Court of Fontaine.

And today? Well, apparently today is rather special.

"...This tea was for you." Wriothesley smiles sheepishly at Neuvillette, once he's entered the man's familiar-looking office. "In light of our dear Hydro Archon's birthday, however, do you think I'm better off giving it to her instead? She might throw me in jail for showing up without a present for her."

Neuvillette, bless him, is trying his best to learn his deadpan humor and memorize his speech patterns – but sometimes, he falls off the mark quite a bit. "I don't believe there's any point in sending you back as an inmate to a place where you're deemed its Administrator. That will require a detailed amount of paperwork."

"You're right," Wriothesley snorts. "But she might have fun with that."

"I suppose she will," Neuvillette agrees, world-weary all of a sudden. "I do not understand her at all."

"She's not that hard to figure out," Wriothesley says. "She loves theatrics. She flourishes in the courtroom because it gives her a stage in which she shines the brightest. You are simply the exact opposite."

"A fair point. We have opposing views on a multitude of topics, I'm afraid."

"Even the performances in the courtroom?" Wriothesley ventures. "You never look like you enjoy them." Of course, he doesn't watch any of the trials. He's only basing this conjecture on his memory of Neuvillette during his trial, the stone-cold expression that harbored neither disgust nor sympathy when he delivered Wriothesley's sentence.

"I am the judge. I cannot be seen enjoying or despising the trials, as I am needed to be the voice of impartiality in a room laden with heightened emotions and exaggerated productions." Neuvillette's eyes stray away, as if ashamed of admitting the truth. "Necessity above propriety – that is what she says whenever the topic comes up in conversation."

Wriothesley isn't surprised to hear this, but it's still rather interesting to think about Neuvillette's relationship with the Hydro Archon in the context of their differing personalities having to work together for a common goal. A regular, sizable workplace will always have such polarizing dynamics, but the two of them are special. Considering how long they've been working together – and no one knows just how long it's been, other than the two of them – it's probably a miracle that they haven't killed each other yet.

Necessity above propriety.

After a certain thoughtful pause, he tosses the box of tea from one hand to the other, before placing it down on Neuvillette's desk.

"It's truly for you," Wriothesley repeats to the judge. "So, I'll leave it up to you if you want her to think it's for her, or if you want to claim it for yourself. I'll be fine, either way."

"Are you certain?" Neuvillette is eyeing the box with undisguised interest, mind already made up. "She will likely express her disappointment, very dramatically and enthusiastically. Not just to you, but to myself as well for taking your offer so selfishly."

"I'll live," Wriothesley says dryly. "I'm sure you will, too."

Neuvillette frowns thoughtfully. "That is a joke."

"Hey, you're learning!"

"But we will, indeed, live through her tantrums," Neuvillette plows through obstinately, and he picks up the box to bring it closer to his side of the desk, leaving no room to doubt just who the gift is meant to be for. Wriothesley says nothing about this rare show of indulgence from the Chief Justice. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Your Grace?"

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...Wriothesley."

"Better." Wriothesley gives him a crooked smile, feeling a little too victorious for such a small thing. "And no, not really, unless you feel like taking a break from work. I'm about to head to Café Lucerne for my afternoon tea. You could join me if you want to."

"We could partake in drinking tea together right here in my office," Neuvillette offers. "No need to go so far for something so simple."

"True, but I do like basking in the sun," Wriothesley admits, though the offer to spend more time with Neuvillette in his cozy little domain is tempting. "I don't see it very often."

"Ah, I… do not." Neuvillette coughs behind a gloved hand. "Bask in the sun, that is."

"Yeah, always took you for a deep sea creature."

"But it is rare for you to be up here, you're right." Neuvillette acquiesces, standing up from behind his desk. He doesn't even deny what Wriothesley says. "Café Lucerne serves excellent Ile flottante that goes well with tea. I'd like to try it again, this time in your company… if you would have me."

"I'll have you," Wriothesley says easily. He feels the quiet endearment that had been lingering quietly in his chest bubbling to the surface, released through a hopeless smile directed at the one man who will probably never know just what it means.

Chapter Text

"Rain again, huh."

"Yes, Your Grace," Sigewinne reports to him about the level of rain currently being experienced by the outside world. It doesn't matter much within the Fortress' walls, but it doesn't hurt to be aware of the times when sea levels rise due to excessive rainfall. "It's been raining for a few days now."

"Well, we are in the nation of Hydro. Is it really a cause for concern?"

Sigewinne, interestingly enough, starts fidgeting. "Your Grace…"

"Yes?"

"...I think you should see what it's like on the surface," she tries to convince him with an adorable smile. It would've fooled him, if he didn't know any better. "You won't know if it's truly something to worry about unless you go and see for yourself."

Wriothesley draws out a long hum, his sharp eyes fixed on Sigewinne as though he'd be able to dissect her thoughts and secrets just by looking at her. Sigewinne doesn't often come to him with weird requests like this, not to a point where it sounds like a desperate demand. There's something she's not telling him, and she knows that he knows she's not telling him something – and yet, she resolutely keeps her mouth shut for one reason or another.

At a point, however, one has to realize that there's only one thing in the world that can make a Melusine clam up faster than a dog with a bone – or rather, someone. A singular entity that all Melusines love and respect, whose secrets they will keep and whose worries they will try to solve any way they can. But what does that have to do with Wriothesley? Why does Sigewinne want him up there? Does it have to be him, specifically?

Most importantly: what does  Neuvillette have to do with the rain?

Or is he reading her signals completely wrong?

The dots aren't connecting, and Wriothesley feels like a floundering fish caught in a net of conspiracy with all these half-baked, nonsensical thoughts. For all he knows, he's running in the opposite direction of the underlying truth and thinking harder than necessary, all because his brain can't separate the Melusines from the man they consider their ideal parental figure.

But back to the point at hand. Sigewinne is still looking at him, patient but expectant.

"I do need a new batch of tea," he acquiesces, after a long bout of silence. Sigewinne brightens so quickly that Wriothesley doesn't regret being led to agree to this. "I heard the stores imported several new flavors from Sumeru. I guess I'll pick some up today."

"I'll try them with you when you get back," she promises him.

And thus, he finds himself above the waterline again. He opts to leave the Fortress through a secret passage in his office, having the sudden urge to swim up in solitude instead of being gawked at by the Fortress residents when making his way upwards and outwards.

It is indeed raining when he pulls his head above the water and continues to do so as he makes the arduous journey on foot to the Court of Fontaine with an umbrella over his head, a steady downpour that shows no sign of stopping – and the trek from Liffey to the court proper is nothing to laugh about. It's no wonder that Sigewinne is worried if it's been like this for a while. Rainfall itself is not bad, but the rising sea levels are not ideal, not with a prophecy to contend with.

Still, there's nothing that he, an ordinary mortal Vision holder, can do about supernaturally consistent rain. Especially not a Cryo user like him. In the middle of the central plaza devoid of other people, he puts out a hand, and with a glow from his vision, several of the raindrops pause and slithers of Cryo curl around the stagnant droplets of water until they turn into razor-sharp little ice crystals, hovering dangerously all around him.

There, now they're the perfect little makeshift weapons that he can use if someone were to try and assassinate him. Rather useless, of course, to someone who prefers to let his fists do all the talking.

"Very impressive control of Cryo."

"Hah, if you say so."

Despite his surprise, Wriothesley doesn't bother turning his head, concentrating instead on releasing Cryo energy and returning ice to its original liquid state. Which, in hindsight, is a bad idea – the released droplets fall to the ground all at once, drenching his legs and feet further.

Ah, yes, what a wonderful reminder that water is wet.

Wriothesley finally turns around, greeting Neuvillette with a wave and raised eyebrows. The man approaches him slowly, and Wriosthesley is distinctly reminded of a predator entering another's domain, knowing it will win the bout if it happens, uncaring of the consequences if he doesn't. It's distinctly, intriguingly, very un-Chief Justice-like – but one must remember that he is more or less the Hydro Archon's right and left hand; everything the water touches belongs to her, and therefore, they are also his.

Wriothesley, in hindsight, is the one trespassing on his grounds.

"The Chief Justice on an afternoon stroll outside the Palais Mermonia," Wriothesley greets him cheerfully. "Another tell-all story for the Steambird to run in tomorrow's morning paper."

"There will be no tell-all tale regarding myself," Neuvillette responds, ever so seriously. Water drips down from the crown of his head to the edges of his elegant garb, but it's as if the water is simply passing by him instead of clothing to his clothes. "I wager that they'll be far more interested in the man who froze the rain in its tracks."

"That's not a wager worth risking, Monsieur Neuvillette. Anyone with a strong elemental affinity can do something equally enthralling to the masses. I'm sure you've got some trick up your sleeves, too."

"Oh? But I don't have a Vision."

Wriothesley narrows his eyes at the man, who stares back just as brazenly. If he doesn't know any better, he'd think that the Chief Justice is… humoring him.

"You're fooling no one," is all he says. But unto more pressing matters, he addresses the state of Neuvillette's clothing, "You know, umbrellas are mighty useful in a weather like this. I bet you've gotten plenty of Fontainians clamoring to give you theirs."

"As you can see, most Fontainians inside the courts have decided to stay indoors instead of trudging along in the rain. Your umbrella is as helpful as a child playing a kite in this weather—"

Wriothesley laughs. "Ouch."

"—and there was no 'clamoring' involved, just so we're clear. Most people simply thought that the weather was an inconvenience to me and wanted to help." There was definitely some clamoring, and Wriothesley can imagine it all too well. Neuvillette is far too oblivious to notice all the regards and adorations that come his way, chalking it up to people being deferential to his social status. "They were very thoughtful, but the rain does not bother me."

"Of course it doesn't." Neuvillette's vision of a perfect day, after all, is to spend the entirety of it underwater. It rings true right now, with Wriothesley seeing him out and about when everyone else decided to find shelter. "Well, Sigewinne's been worried about it. She said it's been raining for days."

"...It has. Has she been worried?"

"More than I thought she would be."

"I see." Neuvillette looks as though he has something else to say, but he wavers in the end, heaving one last sigh. "I would ask that you tell her not to worry too much. The rain will die down eventually."

"Doesn't look like it to me," Wriothesley remarks. "Perhaps we can call out the Hydro Dragon and see if he'll stop weeping any time soon."

That seems to startle Neuvillette, and his voice turns exasperated. "Please don't tell me you believe that ridiculous children's rhyme."

"It's a children's rhyme, Neuvillette," Wriothesley drawls out. "All Fontainians just know it by heart. Maybe I used to believe in it when I was a kid, but children grow up and realize that the world is not always as fantastical as it looks."

The rain seems to falter, for a brief second, before it starts pouring down harder than ever, and Wriothesley puts up the umbrella over both their hands even after Neuvillette tells him that there's no need for him to do so. Who the hell wants to be soaked from head to toe, anyway?

Neuvillette is right about one thing, though: the umbrella is useless, and if this rain gets any harder, it might poke holes in the canopy itself and break in his hands.

"But who knows," he continues with a shrug. "We live in a pretty interesting world. Maybe it's not the Hydro Dragon, but the Archon herself that's crying and making the skies gray. Maybe it's just because we're in Fontaine, and we have excess Hydro in the atmosphere that needs to be released like this once in a while. Maybe someone in Celestia's just fucking with some weather simulation device."

"Or perhaps," Neuvillette says, "it's simply rain."

"Maybe." Wriothesley smiles, amused at the idea that something so simple could be the answer all along. "The weather's just unpredictable like that, isn't it? A shame, though. I kinda like the idea that it's more supernatural than it is."

"Why is that?"

"Hmm, it's just something personal." At the sight of Neuvillette opening his mouth to likely apologize for overstepping, Wriothesley chuckles. "Relax, I'll tell you. Most people attribute rain to sadness or mourning. Dreary skies, lack of sun, cold weather, wet… water." He waves his hand dismissively. "So if someone up there is crying, then your thoughts can get kinda gloomy, you know?"

"Then it's a matter of symbolism," Neuvillette says. "For you, it's different."

"For me, it's rebirth," Wriothesley replies simply. "It was raining during my trial. You know most of what happened there, so I won't reiterate. But at the end of it, I found myself somewhere I'd never been before, some new place that eventually would become home to me. Suddenly life isn't so bad, is it?"

"...I see."

"So, the thought of someone up there blessing me and cleansing away my sins, like some kind of holy baptism – it was a pretty stupid-sounding thought, to be honest, but it was kinda poetic for me. At the time all I wanted was a clear ending and a just verdict to that god-awful time of my life. Can't say I don't appreciate the new life I have now."

"It is a boon to all of Fontaine that you do."

"I wouldn't put it like that." Most of Fontaine don't even remember his existence half the time, or deliberately strip him out of their minds just so they can forget the existence of the place he works in. However, he does appreciate the vote of confidence. "Say, what are you up to, Neuvillette? Actually, why are you out here in the first place? I was on my way to Vasari Passage. I can walk you to the Palais if that's where you're heading."

"Thank you, but there is no need," Neuvillette shakes his head. "I can walk back to the Palais on my own."

"You'll be drenched by the time you get there."

"As I said, the rain does not bother me. In fact…" Neuvillette looks around him. The rain seems to finally be petering out, more of a light shower now than the heavy outpouring they were experiencing. "...it has lightened considerably, so it should be easy enough to stop the rain now."

"Alright, then. ...Wait, what do you mean 'stop–'?"

Neuvillette holds out his hand, just as Wriothesley did – and time… stops. Utterly different from when Wriothesley froze a few droplets and turned them into cute little icicles. This time it's every single one, everywhere he looks.

Everything has stopped. 

Wriothesley is wide-eyed as he watches Neuvillette flick his hand up. Water rushes up with a soft whoosh, pulled together and up into the skies until it is nothing more than a bright twinkle, and all the umbrella's blocking is the orange glow of the afternoon sun finally peeking out now that gray skies are gone.

"There we go." Neuvillette nods to himself, brushing a hand down his sleeve to check if it's really dry. "You did mention earlier about me having tricks up my sleeve…?"

The fucking cheeky bastard. He looks pleased with himself – not quite smug, but satisfied enough in the way that lights up his whole face, eyes crinkling in the corners like he's fighting down a smile.

Like he's having fun.

Wriothesley pulls down his umbrella and folds it close, ignoring the way his chest swells with extreme disbelief coupled with unimaginable admiration. He holds up his free hand, but of course, there's no water left in the surrounding area for him to freeze. All that's left is the creeping feeling of the sun offering him the last of its warmth before it starts setting down on the far horizon.

"...You're not good for my heart, you know," Wriothesley says breathlessly, and Archons above, he hopes that comes across as a joke. "This is… did you pull back the rain from all of Fontaine? The  entire nation ?"

"The rain was gradually letting up. I merely hurried it along."

"Do you even hear yourself?"

"I do when I speak, yes," Neuvillette replies, nonplussed.

"That… was rhetorical."

"Oh, I see." Neuvillette hums. "I'm afraid that's not a tone that I often encounter when others speak to me. I don't have much practice in how to respond to it."

"I – oh, forget it. So you pulled back the rain, incredible. Just what I'd expect from the long-lived, Vision-less, Hydro-inclined, totally-normal Chief Justice of Fontaine." Wriothesley shakes his head. "Any chance that you'd tell me what your secrets are?"

"That'd be of no use to you."

"So you have secrets," Wriothesley prods lightly, as though he doesn't already know any of the rumors surrounding the true identity of their infallible Chief Justice. "Now, I'm curious."

"It's getting late, Your Grace. I must return to the Palais." Neuvillette huffs good-naturedly when Wriothesley makes an unsatisfied noise at the mention of his title. "I trust that you'll know your way to Vasari Passage without encountering any other issues?"

"You're kidding me right now," Wriothesley's eyebrows rise, but immediately after saying that, he puts up a hand. "Nope, that's rhetorical, too. Don't answer that. No, I won't have issues, thanks for caring."

"Of course," Neuvillette says smoothly. "Please make sure you stop by the local grocery store before you leave the city. I heard they've imported some rare specialty teas from Sumeru City. For a tea connoisseur like yourself, you are sure to enjoy them."

A few hours later, back in the relative safety and silence of his office, Sigewinne bounces back in, all smiles.

"The rain has stopped!" she exclaims cheerfully, as she sets down one of her godforsaken milkshakes on the edge of his desk. "How did it go?"

"How did what go?" He asks as he attempts to focus on his paperwork so he doesn't have to acknowledge the monstrosity of a drink that she's trying to shove down his throat. "I got up, it was raining. Then it stopped raining. I got my tea, then I went home."

"Did you see Monsieur Neuvillette?"

Wriothesley looks up from the requisition letter he's writing so that he's eye to eye with an eager and curious-looking Sigewinne. That begs the question: did she send him to the overworld because she hoped that he'd run into Neuvillette? Or did she send him to check out the rain, and Neuvillette happened to be there, and she, of course, asked randomly about the Chief Justice, because she always does?

"My dear Sigewinne," he starts seriously, "I'm going to have to ask you to give me some context clues when you’re asking me very specific questions like that. I'm only a silly little human, and you're some clairvoyant, next-level spy that's out to get me if I ever give you the wrong answer."

"Don't be silly, silly. It's just a question."

"You're a Melusine," he points out. "You're asking me about Neuvillette. I fear I'm in over my head."

She huffs loudly, hands on her hips. "Well, I'm going to take your response as a yes." She softens, however, when she barrages him with the next set of questions. "How is he? Did he look healthy to you? Does he look like he's eating well? Was he taking a walk outside or did you have to go to his office? We're always telling him to step outside sometimes because he's always alone in his office. Did he have someone with him or was he alone? Was he–?"

"Whoa, there, I think you've already talked my ear off, and I haven't even responded." Wriothesley chuckles. "You care for him a lot, don't you?"

"Of course! You said it: I am a Melusine, and I am asking after Monsieur Neuvillette. He's always taking care of us, so it's our responsibility to take care of him in return. So you need to tell me what you know!"

"Oh? Then do I get to know what you know?" Wriothesley tries to wheedle with a shit-eating grin on his face, his fingers curled into a fist under his chin. "I know he has a secret already. He's not that subtle, so you should just tell me the whole story."

"Nope!" She wags a finger at him, a distinctly human habit that she no doubt discovered from watching him deal with some of the rowdier inmates. "That's between Monsieur Neuvillette and whoever he tells. If you're not in the know, then you don't get to know."

"A special club that doesn't involve me? I see we're playing favorites now." He finally puts down the pen in his hands, stretching his arms as he leans back on his plush chair. He thinks about the encounter with Neuvillette, replaying key moments like a high-quality film that won't stop playing in his head. "At least that makes it easy. I'll just have to make sure I become one of Neuvillette's favorite people in the world, then he'll tell me everything."

"...Do you think that's going to work?"

Wriothesley smiles wolfishly. "You think I can't do it?"

She pauses, and tilts her head at him, examining him through eyes that he knows see differently from the rest of the world. "Hm, if it's you…"

"...if it's me?" Wriothesley urges.

"The way you do things here at the Fortress can be annoying sometimes," she blurts out, though he isn't oblivious to her opinion on his way of working. "But… your methods can be quite effective when used on the right people, and you're very good at thinking on the fly. Maybe… maybe you'll figure something out."

"That's the spirit," he enthuses. "Just for that, you can come sit with me on the couch. I'll tell you about Monsieur Neuvillette, and you can make good on your promise and try this Sumerian tea I bought from the store earlier…"

He hopes what he tells her will be enough to keep her satisfied for today.

(He also hopes she'll forget about the drink she put on his desk.)

(She doesn't.)

Operation: Find out Neuvillette's Secret doesn't really take off the way he hopes. Nor does he make much of an effort to get it off the ground as quickly as possible, anyway.

He is curious about the Chief Justice, but there are more important things that require his attention. He is, first and foremost, the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide. It's a full-time job wrangling out all the different personalities that occupy the fortress and making sure that these people don't maim or kill each other. He has the support of many inmates, and the Gardes assigned to the Fortress are well-trained and well-equipped to deal with the ups and downs of guarding a gathering place of exiles. However, the running system of resources, manpower, and intelligence he's put in place will not keep on churning like a well-oiled machine if he lets go of the handle driving the proverbial aquabus any time soon.

Secondly, he does not see Neuvillette as often as he may have liked – not that he's going to admit that out loud, to anyone. Dangerous thoughts need to stay hidden in the depths of his mind, and an attachment to the Chief Justice needs to be put on the back burner so as not to incite unwanted attention from those who want to ruin either of them.

The thoughts do creep up, regardless, because Wriothesley is only human, and it's been a while since anyone has caught his attention in his way. The Fortress can be a lonely place, even with friends, and the Chief Justice, no matter how you look at it, is beautiful. From his handwriting, to how he dresses, to his bewitching looks, to the way he talks… to the justice he delivers in a courtroom full of his admirers.

But in his head is where those thoughts are staying, never to see the light of day.

Thirdly… well.

Sometimes, shit hits the fan, and good men die at the hands of justice.

Wosley comes to his office one morning with a tray of food; he only does this when he has news that he must deliver personally to the Duke. "Your Grace, I thought you should know this before you start your morning." He lays down the tray of food on Wriothesley's desk. "Rumors are going around the Fortress right now that one of the Champion Duelists killed someone in a duel."

Wriothesley puts down his morning tea next to the tray, staring at the steam curling over his freshly cooked breakfast meal. As per their training and their code of conduct, Champion duelists don't fight to kill – unless they have no other choice.

"Was it legal?" he asked simply.

"I suppose so," Wosley mutters. "They said the defendant refused a court trial. Asked for a duel instead. The Chief Justice oversaw it. Start to finish."

Wriothesley looks up. "He didn't stop it?"

"No, Your Grace." After a small pause, he adds, "Some folks are saying that the guy just wanted to die, and that's why he's guilty and the Iudex didn't stop the match."

Death doesn't answer to justice. Wriothesley bites down on his words, and instead asks, "I'll probably get the report later, but can you tell me who it is? Do people even know that yet?"

"Sure they do," Wosley says easily. "It's Mr Callas, sir. Of Spina di Rosula."

He does get the report, after breakfast. He gets it along with the delivery of his daily copy of the Steambird, which has plastered a picture of Callas before his untimely demise on the very front page. The journalist writes about the case and the duel in that over-the-top, sensationalist way that he dislikes the most – they describe the most mundane and unimportant things, from the clothes Callas was wearing ('he looks too good to be guilty, that he might as well be'), to the kind of sword Clorinde was using ('nothing over the top, just like her'), and up to the way the Chief Justice was walking about with his cane ('very elegant and refined, as expected of the beloved Iudex').

They end it with a ridiculously dramatic phrase about the rain washing away Callas' blood down to the dirty sewers and calls the man 'the Unfaithful', an epithet to remember him by forever. He might as well be reading a gossip rag.

The report from the Maison Gestion is a little more tolerable; even if the trial or duel ends in the death of a would-be inmate, he is still informed of what occurred as a precaution (in the case of associates, accessories, or anything that may relate to the case and involve other suspicious individuals in the future). Imena is a little too enthusiastic, but she does her job well at informing him of the circumstances surrounding the case, which he's thankful for. At least someone's helpful.

However, the report itself is dry. It is a standard recollection of events that have already passed, from the eye of someone that does not have a firsthand account of said events. She is so far removed from it that the whole report is laid out on a single sheet of paper, bunched up with all the other reports that need his attention.

As though… It is nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary at all.

Wriothesley heaves a big sigh and goes through the motions of his day-to-day life.

It's right after lunchtime that he finally sees the bottom of the report pile from today's stack, and therein lies a request for Wriothesley to meet with the Iudex for their quarterly meeting with regards to its partnership in trade, the production zone's mechanical creations in exchange for essential supplies from the overworld. Nothing too special, but it's not like he's going to say no.

When he comes up to the surface it is, once again, raining. He really should not be surprised by it, not when there have been long-held rumors and superstitions about there always being rain after a trial. Or, in this case, a lawfully-sanctioned duel to the death.

He really should not be surprised at all, either, that as he's walking toward the Palais Mermonia, he finds a familiar figure off to the side, standing unbothered in the rain. Wriothesley could only see his back, but he'd recognize those long, gorgeous strands of moonlit silver hair anywhere.

He approaches as he usually does, thinking nothing of it.

"Still going out and about without an umbrella? I th–"

"Your Grace."

Wriothesley stops at the sharp call of his title, and his eyes catch the sight of Neuvillette's fingers curled stonily around the closest railing. His focus shifts then and there, taking in the odd and stiff body posture as if Neuvillette is waiting for a fight, with a faraway look in his eyes. As though he's seeing nothing and everything, and all the in-betweens.

This is a fighter with an instinct to fight the first thing that crosses his path – a cornered animal, not knowing where to go, unsure who to trust. Honing in on his sense of self-preservation to survive. Wriothesley gets the distinct impression that he's lucky Neuvillette does not have claws (that he can physically see).

He steps back consciously, though he still keeps the umbrella over both their heads, useless as it is seeing that the Chief Justice is soaked from head to toe.

"My apologies," he says. "I shouldn't have disturbed you. I can wait in your office until you're… uh, done here."

That seems to snap Neuvillette back to reality. The Iudex inhales, turning to Wriothesley with narrowed eyes. "My office?"

"For our scheduled business meeting," Wriothesley reminds him. "Estimates on the timeline of the current meka production, the current numbers and sales, productivity reports – you know, the usual."

"That… is today. Yes." Neuvillette uncurls his hands from the railing, his palms slightly red from how hard he's been holding on to it. Wriothesley raises both eyebrows after seeing its slightly bent state but says nothing of it. "It's my turn to apologize, Duke Wriothesley. It seems it slipped past my mind."

"I can wait, or we can reschedule…"

Neuvillette shakes his head vehemently. "No, you came all the way up here for this meeting. I know you have much to do at the Fortress. I do not wish to waste your time." His eyes flick up to the umbrella over his head, then back to Wriothesley's face. "I have said before that the rain is no trouble to me."

"That you did," Wriothesley says, "but seeing you all alone in the rain bothers me."

"Why?"

"Do I need a reason to? It just does."

"I find that most humans require a reason to be called to action." It doesn't quite sound like a criticism, but Wriothesley notices how Neuvillette's expression hardens as he talks. "Even if the reason is nowhere near acceptable or discernable. Perhaps, especially so, in those cases."

'Most humans'  is what he says. Wriothesley stares at him for a moment, before he takes a dip in the water and hazards a guess. "His death really got to you, didn't it?"

What comes come Neuvillette is a rush of air, almost angry in its hurriedness, almost like he's been holding his breath above the water for fear of drowning, of getting in over his head. Wriothesley knows fruitless, frustration when he sees it. Until now, it hasn't occurred to Wriothesley that there could be something in this world that can fluster and confuse the Iudex, that a simple thing like human thought could be the key to undoing that head of his.

Neuvillette says nothing to agree or deny Wriothesley's assertion – silence is golden, after all – until thunder starts bellowing in the sky, signaling an even worse turn of rainfall.

Wriothesley takes pity on the two of them. "Come on, let's talk about this inside."

A beat passes, and Neuvillette follows.

Chapter Text

Silence reigns supreme inside Neuvillette's office.

Neuvillette is puttering around his desk, pulling out the various files he will need for their meeting – and that's after a profuse apology for forgetting their meeting, the most uncharacteristic part of this whole exchange. He has them ready, he says, but he just needs to take out some supplemental files. They sound like flimsy excuses, even to the untrained ear.

In stark contrast, Wriothesley is utterly relaxed on the couch, his wet coat shrugged off his shoulders and waving away another apology. He has an arm draped over the back of his seat and is staring shamelessly at the Chief Justice, who is resolutely ignoring his presence.

It is a game now, on who drops the ball first between the dutiful man of the office and the stranger encroaching in his space. Neuvillette is often reticent and does not crack under pressure; neither does Wriothesley.

After a few minutes of silence, Neuvillette finally sits on the other end of the couch, as prim and proper as ever as he tidies up the stacks of paperwork on the coffee table closest to them.

"I'd like to start this meeting by–"

"Wow."

Neuvillette falters, "Yes?"

"Nothing," Wriothesley says innocently. "Business as usual now that we're just dried up and warm in your office, right? Nothing much happened out there, it's not like I caught you in the rain having some deep and heavy thoughts all to yourself."

"...I apologize for–"

"There you go again with your apologies." Wriothesley takes his arm off the back of the couch and rests it on his crossed legs. "What do you have to be sorry for, your emotions?"

"Simply, for neglecting to conduct utmost professionalism and placing this meeting the higher priority it deserves." As expected, Neuvillette sidesteps his question and adopts matters of work as his armor. "The relationship between the Fortress of Meropide and the Palais Mermonia needs to take precedence over most matters, and I failed to do so."

Wriothesley glances at the files on the table. He already knows the numbers by heart, and won't be surprised by anything Neuvillette says or offers. As long as the contract between the Fortress and the Maison Gestion is upheld, it's quite easy for him to follow through on any demands that the Palais has of the clockwork production. Neuvillette has always been reasonable and fair, and Wriothesley has every confidence that everything on paper will be followed through in practice.

"Let's postpone this meeting, Chief Justice," he says suddenly. "Don't worry, I have time next week, and I'm certain after that speech that you'll make time for me."

"Of course," Neuvillette easily concedes to his confident, unspoken demand, a rare feat. "However, if you are postponing on account of our conversation outside, I assure you that you needn't bother. I can conduct this meeting without any more hiccups."

"I won't enter important transactions unless both parties are well-prepared, with full consent, and heads clear of intrusive thoughts," Wriothesley is uncompromising in this regard. "I'd also feel aggrieved if I'm made to feel like I'm taking advantage of someone's show of vulnerability."

Neuvillette has a look on his face, as though he's about to scold Wriothesley for calling his moment outside a 'show of vulnerability', though he has wisely chosen to keep his thoughts to himself, for now. Wriothesley has a firm thought of the Iudex in his head now: Neuvillette is just, fair, considerate, and his kindness is understated – but he is as humble as he is proud, and the difference between the two is a pin dropped in a vast ocean.

"Then, I'm at a loss," Neuvillette admits, after a while, folding his hands together on his lap. A sign of compliance, or he's holding on to himself to prevent any undignified and uncharacteristic body motions. "Now that the purpose of your visit has been lost."

"Nah, who said that?" Wriothesley denies, casual as you please. "I can't just visit you for no reason?"

"You can," Neuvillette allows, which does surprise him.

"I can?"

"But you don't," he says primly. "Not ever."

"Yeah, you're right… but I can start a new trend today."

"I don't see any good reason for you to abandon your post at the Fortress to spend time here in my office," Neuvillette says honestly. "There's nothing much for conversation or companionship that I can offer. You're better off finding entertainment elsewhere."

"You're very good at perpetuating your preconceived notions."

"Which means…?"

"Which means, that perhaps it's not so much as what you can offer me – but what I can offer you." Wriothesley, in a moment of sheer idiocy and weakness, finger-guns at the Chief Justice. "Does the Iudex of Fontaine not need a friend in these trying times?"

"So we come back to this," Neuvillette says, almost stern. His back is taut as a bowstring, leaning into etiquette to avoid a conversation Wriothesley is pushing with the subtlety of a Sumerian Sumpter Beast. "It is about our conversation outside."

"Neuvillette," Wriothesley continues patiently, "do you believe yourself to be infallible?"

"That is absurd," Neuvillette denies with a firm shake of his lovely head. "No creature living in this world has so much power that they believe themselves untouchable. Even if they do, there are ways to quickly dismiss their beliefs. But to answer your question: no, I do not."

"So there's no harm in admitting that you're emotionally compromised," Wriothesley says. "You'll get no judgment from me in that regard."

"What would you know of my emotion, Your Grace?" Neuvillette goes back to Wriothesley's title yet again – sharp and pointed, like claws on his neck.

There's only two ways he can go about it, really – slow and purposeful, like kid gloves that will not harm, to extricate himself from a dangerous situation; or a swift punch to the heart of the matter. He may bleed with it, but it's always been his method of choice regardless of the outcome.

All things considered, it has worked on Neuvillette thus far. The Iudex appreciates honesty, all the more so from someone like Wriothesley who has never shied away from expressing himself. There's a difference, of course, between an exchange of truths to sate one's curiosity, and baring your soul to another. If a heart can be held in one's palm, then Wriothesley is a hair's breadth away from digging his nails into the cavity of Neuvillette's chest – to feel the rapid beating of it against his skin or watch it slowly lose whatever life it holds until it becomes an icy cage shielding Neuvillette from others, and not even Wriothesley's Cryo can defrost.

Wriothesley takes a glance outside, where the rain and wind seem to slap against the glass to the beat of the adrenaline slowly pumping in his veins, the natural formula that fuels all kinds of bad decisions.

"Did you know," Wriothesley starts nonchalantly, "that Mr Callas and I met only once?" Wriothesley sees the way Neuvillette's hands reflexively curl into fists over his knee, his sharp eyes staring at the wall across from where they're sitting as though it holds all the answers. "It was during the inauguration of the aquabus line connecting the Court of Fontaine to the Fontaine Research Institute. He was an interesting man, far too shrewd and capable for someone left untitled by the Palais Mermonia."

Neuvillette clears his throat. "He declined the honor, much like you did at first."

"Maybe he would've eventually agreed, but I guess we'll never know."

"He did not strike me as the kind of man that would second guess his own decisions." Neuvillette glances at him with a frown. "Much like yourself, I suppose. But you did accept it in the end."

"My reasons are simple, and you know it. Ambition is a hell of a drug." He taps the couch arm next to him, where his coat sits with his Cryo Vision dangling from its chains. "But whether or not a human changes their mind, reasons don't matter. It's all about their choice. What comes after that changes the course of fate, sometimes not just their own. Some people think past their reasoning, and some people don't."

"I still would like to know for myself, the reasons for their choices." Neuvillete inclines his head in acknowledgment. "To my understanding, men who seek death most often do not seek justice."

"Justice is blind," Wriothesley reminds him. "Even death can be judged." Neuvillette closes his eyes. Wriothesley tries to relax as he presses his hands on his knees, a hopeless effort to prevent himself from reaching out and curling a hand around a stray piece of silver hair, to tuck it behind his ear and press a comforting touch down the line of his neck until he can feel the signs of life under his fingertips. Even in sadness, Neuvillette is captivating, glowing like a beacon in the darkness. "I would like to reiterate what I said earlier, Monsieur Neuvillette. There's no harm in admitting you're compromised."

"Some things need not be said."

"And some things can make you feel better if you say them out loud."

Neuvillette opens his eyes, and nothing is more devastating than to see grief in the face of someone who feels it down to his bones. Anguish and devastation are curled on his lips like a tasteless platter of unfathomable hurt that can only be mended by time. "Justice is bestowed, not taken." Neuvillette's confession is a soft murmur that echoes in the room hosting two in its harrowing silence. "That's what I've always believed. 

"There were too many factors at play," Wriothesley guesses. An Iudex not able to dole out a verdict still sees the path a just ruling might have taken.

"At best, there would not have been any verdict, and this trial would still be in session days after. If a guilty verdict were to be upheld, at the very least, he would have been exiled to the Fortress, and his life would not be forfeit, for you would have given him a proper 'rebirth'. But now, we have a crime with no witnesses, a dead victim, and now, a dead defendant. Perhaps, a name sullied forever despite all accomplishments done for the betterment of the people."

"He knew that," Wriothesley says, with surety.

"And now, he's gone."

"And now, he's gone." Wriothesley echoes. "It sucks all around, but all you can do now is prove that his death wasn't in vain."

"Was it not?" Neuvillette asks. "He has a daughter. A family."

"Ms Navia seems like a wonderful person," Wriothesley responds honestly, from what he knows of Callas' group and their reputation. "I've no doubt Spina di Rosula's fate has been bestowed on capable hands." And the first thing she'll do when she is put in place is to prove her father's innocence if Wriothesley's instincts are to be believed. If the Iudex himself believes that this case is unsolved, no doubt others think the same.

"Then, is family not something worth living for?"

Yes, Wriothesley thinks immediately, without pause, the true crux of the matter dawning on him like a proverbial lightbulb turning on at a snap of a finger. And no.

Some things, like family, are worth living for… and dying for.

"A lot of humans weigh the worth of their lives based on what they possess, whatever that may entail – material possessions, the loved ones left behind, or a legacy to stand the test of time – but there's more to life than even life itself. The worth of a human life isn't easily quantified by anyone from the outside looking in." Wriothesley, finally, looks away. "So you have to ask yourself: what does a man, who has everything to live for, have to die for?"

Does someone who's rumored to have lived for centuries, who isn't human, who has only ever been alone, even know what that means? For once — and if only Wriothesley can savor this moment for a long time – Neuvillette is gobsmacked into a long and deep silence.

The rain has died down to a light shower that he can probably walk out of the Palais with no issue, infinitely better than the thunderstorm that mimicked the sentiment of the evening as though the skies felt the moment Neuvillette has eased into something more bearable than unanchored grief.

Wriothesley pauses at that train of thought, though he doesn't linger on it for too long. He looks at the clock in Neuvillette's office and finally admits to himself that he's overstayed his welcome.

"Well, I think our meeting time's up. I should get going, or they'll start sending people to track me down." Wriothelsley picks up his coat from the arm of one of Neuvillette's fancy couches, draping it over his shoulders. "This isn't the kind of night you thought you were gonna have, is it?"

"No," Neuvillette replies honestly. "But you have given me much to think about."

"Glad to be of service," Wriothesley says. "I don't expect an answer any time soon, but… do me a favor and just think about what I said for me, will you?"

"Yes." Neuvillette's eyes are clear and honest. "For you, I will."

"What troubles you, Your Grace?"

"...Shouldn't I be asking you that, instead?" Wriothesley stops stirring his tea, looking up to see Sigewinne watching him like a hawk yet again from her usual spot on his couch. "Barging into my office like this. You'd think something is going on out there that you're trying to avoid. Or better yet, another rainstorm. You sure are wary of those."

"I'm not wary of rain," Sigewinne denies in that unbelievably adorable tone of hers, a sign of how adorably unbelievable her statement is. "It's just very… telling."

"Is it, now?"

"Mm-hm," Sigewinne nods. "It tells me whenever you have something on your mind, which is very obvious anyway since you've been staring at your tea for a while instead of drinking it."

The bullshit meter is off the charts with this one, but Wriothesley only has himself to blame for being her sole role model in this isolated Fortress.

Sigewine, taking after him in all the best and worst ways, is relentless. "Care to share your thoughts with me, Your Grace?"

"And what reward do I get for doing that?"

"Um… a milkshake?"

"Please, Sigewinne, have mercy on this poor soul, I beg you." Wriothesley groans and puts both hands up in surrender, a real shudder of fear running down his spine. "Fine,  fine! You're too compelling. I'll tell you, but no milkshakes. No nothing. You get your info and that's that."

"Only if you swear to tell only the truth," she counters, not backing down.

"You're one tough nut," Wriothesley sighs. "Fine. I'll even put it in writing."

"There's no need for that," she assures him. "I trust you."

Sweet of her, really, and so devious, too. It warms his heart that she's able to say those words so quickly, even after knowing that she only says that because she knows he will fold to her demands. He can't deny her much of anything, though she luckily doesn't abuse his weakness too much – a perfect partnership between the Head Nurse and her often patient.

The truth is not so simple, anyway.

"It's hard to say," he discloses, for once trying to find his words. "The trouble is not necessarily with me."

"You're worried about someone else," she guesses. "That's normal."

"I'm just not good at comforting others." Wriothesley shrugs. "Looking back at past conversations, I could've gotten my points across better."

"Did they take it badly?"

"I don't think so," he says slowly, thinking through the moments in which Neuvillette remained silent but listened thoroughly to every word he said. "But who's to say? It's not like I'll change who I am. Just gotta be mindful of the pitfalls."

"I think you do a wonderful job as yourself," she says encouragingly. "You can be a wonderful friend to someone if you put your mind to it. I'm sure they appreciate all you have to say, even if it doesn't seem like it."

"Don't praise me too much, or I might get a big head." Wriothesley chuckles. "Thanks, Sigewinne."

"No problem," she says, pleased. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Ah, not really, I was just reading and drafting some letters before you got here," he replies, and before he can continue down that line of thought, there's a loud knock on his door.

Sigewinne volunteers to go down and check on the unexpected visitor, and meanwhile, he gives in to the urge and makes another batch of tea. She returns a while later without company, but there's a letter in her hands that she quickly passes to him. "Tristane stopped by with a letter for you," she says brightly, as she always does when talking about her Melusine friends. "I told her to wait for me at the Cafeteria, so I'll be going on my lunch break now if that's okay with you."

"Of course, Sigewine." He'll end up finding stickers on his boxing gloves tonight, again, but he can't begrudge her moments of happiness. "Have fun out there."

He knows who the letter is from before he even tears the seal open, Neuvillette's soft and elegant script greeting him with a familiar warmth that jumps off the page. He settles back on his desk with a hot cup of tea in hand as he reads it. 

Your Grace,

Firstly, I would like to thank you for the time you opted to spend with me despite my lack of graciousness as a host. I will endeavor to prepare a better welcome the next time you return to the surface. And since you often point out my tendency to apologize for every little blunder, I will thus avoid doing so in this letter for your sake.

I am not so well-versed in the delicate art of conversation, thus my way of talking can seem superfluous to others, or even dishonest and distant. I can wish sometimes to be different from who I am, but I cannot be anything other than myself, a symbol of impartiality. It is difficult for me to share my thoughts, especially with others like yourself who seem to have little difficulty doing so.

Were I a more honest man, I would no doubt already have a reply to your question on what a human's life is worth. However, the consequences of revealing myself and my feelings are always at the back of my mind. I cannot consciously do so – not yet, perhaps. Perhaps one day.

For now, I will keep your words and advice in my thoughts.

Sincerely,

M. Neuvillette

P.S. Enclosed with this letter is my schedule for the following week. Please mark the date when you'd like to continue our conversation on the Fortress' Gardemek production, and I shall block that time for you.

Chapter Text

"I see you've crawled out of your cave."

"Hello to you, too." Wriothesley waves at Clorinde, as jolly as can be even as he's given odd looks by the other Champion Duelists who have no idea who he is and how he's allowed in their training area. "Y'got time?"

Clorinde looks around, assessing. "I suppose," she says, her tone dubious at best. The two of them start walking away from the rest of the crowd, eager to start on whatever business Wriothesley undoubtedly has come here for. "You know my rates."

"And you know I'm solvent," Wriothesley drawls out, leading the way despite knowing the area less than someone who's lived in it all their life. "Cafe Lucerne, as usual?"

"You're predictable."

"C'mon," he whines, "I'll even get you free snacks!"

"Tea is not a snack."

"Ow, you just slapped me in the face," he deadpans.

Clorinde only sighs, her usual method of communicating with him. "Must be serious, if you're asking for me. Don't you have lackeys? I'm sure the Maison Gardiennage is also willing to lend you a few hands if you ask."

"My lackeys are inmates, in case you don't remember where I work. Meanwhile, the Gardiennage is too entrenched in formal legalities. I'd be sifting through so much paperwork before I could even catch a whiff of the people I'm supposed to order around. Hiring a Duelist is simpler."

"You're hiring me," Clorinde points out simply – and, well, it's a point well spotted. She's the best of the best and often employed by the Archon or the Chief Justice to do their bidding. When free, she can charge others the highest possible fee due to her overwhelming success rate and endorsement from the aforementioned employers. Almost no one can afford her, and those who do think twice and thrice before they call upon her.

Wriothesley is one of her few frequent and consistent customers. The Gardemek production pays well enough that he can negotiate for consistent requisition of supplies and operational necessities without worrying about applying for government subsidies or sinking the Fortress in paying interest on administrative loans.

In any case, he doesn't just hire her because she's the best or the most expensive. Wriothesley trusts a fair few with significant tasks.

"The Maison Gardiennage just finished the assessment and investigation of a human trafficking case," he says, once they are sat on one of the tables at the far corner, away from prying eyes and ears. "Neuvillette is presiding over the trial tomorrow. It's a bit of a high-profile case, so I'll be away for a couple of days to oversee the arrest and transfer post-trial. The only other person I'd trust to handle the Fortress while I'm gone is Sigewinne, but there's a flu bug going around. As Head Nurse, she's got a lot on her plate. So, I need you to sit on my chair and keep it warm for me until I get back."

"You'll be up here helping Neuvillette with the retrieval, then?"

"A bit, yeah. Also, one of the men standing trial has a special request, and Neuvillette allowed me to oversee the proceedings from start to finish." He presses a macaron between his fingers, the coating more or less crumbling messily in his hands. "Ooh."

"What's the request?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," he winks, swallowing the macaron whole.

"I suppose I should know better than to ask," she says, exasperated at his antics. "I'll find out."

"I'm sure you will," Wriothesley says, unbothered. "When you do, don't tell me. I like my secrets. Anyway, how've you been doing?"

She looks at him weirdly. "You've never asked me that."

"Color me curious," he says. "Also, are you calling me a bad friend? I'm hurt. I take my time to see you up here even with my super busy schedule. I bought you afternoon tea, and I asked you how you're doing. I'm the perfect friend, the bestest friend."

"You're asking because of the duel," she cuts him off shrewdly. "You're a few months too late."

Well, one cannot blame the prison warden for being stuck in prison, he thinks.

"Does it feel like it's been a few months?"

"You already know the answer to that one." She sighs again, but it's heavier this time. "Thank you for asking, but I am fine. I like my secrets, too."

"Okay, sure," he acquiesces easily. "But I'm also going to find out your secrets. And unlike me, it'll bother you if I'm sticking my nose into your business without your permission. You might as well let me have it."

"You're just like a dog with a bone," she shakes her head, but thankfully, she isn't angry – yet. "What do you want me to say? Mr Callas died in the duel, his injuries were that severe. He died in the hospital, announced at the break of dawn, enough time for the Steambird to change the headlines on the morning newspaper."

"He didn't back down."

"No, and I dared not disrespect a man of his caliber by entering the ring without the intention of winning the duel."  He wanted to die. Of all people, Wriothesley understands the unsaid quite profoundly. Clorinde doesn't linger on that thought, anyway. "The investigation is still ongoing despite the outcome of the trial, however. Since it ended with Mr Callas' death, the actual case is factually unsolved, even if the law books consider his death as the announcement of his guilt. I suspect Neuvillette won't completely close this case until he has all the facts. His instincts for that kind of thing are impeccable."

"Mm-hm." He's had that discussion with Neuvillette, of course, brief and intense as it had been. "And I suppose you and Ms Navia are no longer on speaking terms?"

She doesn't move an inch, and he expects her not to – knowing she expects him to know. A vicious cycle between two friends, who will ask but not ask, who will know but not know, and in the end, everything is swept under the water because they're not the kind of friends that will hold the other's hand.

All questions and little comfort, which is the way that's always worked for the two of them.

"Why would we be? I killed her father."

"Just like that, huh?" But this Clorinde he's speaking to, of course, is short and blunt only because she knows he won't respond with whatever fake words of sympathy that she's probably getting from the snakes at court that only want a piece of the gossip. "And here I was, feeling sorry that you had to go through that. Mr Callas was a respectable family man."

"That depends. How respectable do you find a man that went in the ring knowing he would die?"

"What's worth dying for, Clorinde?"

"Whatever is worth living for," she replies easily. They have always been on the same page, after all. "Perhaps I should be asking you how you're doing. You're not having an existential crisis, are you?"

"Are you calling me old?"

"Just calling it as I see it."

"Can't a man discuss the ethics of life and death without being asked if he's losing his marbles?"

Clorinde just raises an eyebrow. "Well?"

"...Fine."

Wriothesley briefly laments the growth of their friendship where they can longer spit casual bullshit to throw the others off because they know each other way too well.

"Clorinde, my dearest friend," he says, with all the seriousness in the world he can muster, it makes Clorinde sit straight in her seat, "I know this may be hard to believe, but what if I tell you that I'm falling in love?"

Silence.

"Fine," she almost spits out, irritated beyond belief that Wriothesley can practically see the steam coming out of her ears. "If you don't want to tell me the truth, then I'll figure it out myself."

Wriothesley, unable to help it, laughs himself sick.

The request from the newly convicted criminal, in exchange for testifying in court and pleading guilty, was simple – for the court to take care of his daughter, and mercifully put her in a loving home while he did his sentence. A tall order, considering his involvement in a human trafficking case, but one that Neuvillette allowed Wriothesley to grant, regardless.

On the subject of family, Wriothesley doesn't have much to say, aside from the basics. Be a good parent. Love your family. Be honest with your children, and protect them from the things that might hurt them. Most importantly, don't sell them to the highest bidder.

His standards for parenting are pretty damn low, all things considered. Anyone who manages to find the bar and sink even lower underneath it for one reason or another is both a marvel and a disgrace to humanity. Dealing with these scoundrels, and making sure they know exactly what he thinks of people like them, is the least he can do as a high-ranking and well-respected member of today's society.

This is why difficult cases involving children – or excluding them completely, because some audacious parent seems to think they can hide their stains from their family and remain a virtuous person in their eyes forever – are expedited to his desk, without exception.

Some lessons need to be taught… personally.

"Your Grace, Fontaine's Child Welfare Services has already made all the necessary arrangements. You needn't escort the criminal personally…"

"I just want to make sure this task isn't left to someone who… lacks propriety."

The endings are never happy, and never easy. It fucks with his head more than he cares to admit, because dire things like this aren't easily solvable by a cup of tea and a punch in someone else's face. Not that he makes it obvious, but his people know him well. When he reappears at the Fortress' entrance with the criminal in tow, Marette looks at his face and clicks her tongue.

"That bad?" she drawls, side-eying the handcuffed man beside Wriothesley, before turning to him. "Welcome back, Your Grace."

"Happy to be back in such a lovely place," he responds with great enthusiasm that she refuses to match this day. "Got any news for me before I head up?"

"Ms Clorinde has already left. She said the Fortress is intact and that you owe her."

"What's she talking about?" Wriothesley grumbles to himself. "I pay her."

Marette gladly ignores that. "Well, while you're figuring that one between each other, you've got a visitor that you should probably entertain when you get to your office."

At the mention of a visitor, he immediately goes through his calendar in his head. He knows he hasn't missed any scheduled meetings, so this one must be a special visit. "And you let them in?" he asks, half-sarcastic. "Are you crazy?"

"Not much crazier than you'll be once you discover who it is." Marette shows him the logbook and smirks when he curses out loud – because she pretends to be bored of her job but she's made of pure evil and schadenfreude, especially when Wriothesley is involved. "My apologies, Your Grace. How about I take this guy—" She points to the criminal standing next to him, still as a statue and trembling with fear when Wriothesley half-shouted an expletive, "—and get him up to speed, so you can go deal with your guest."

"I swear to the Archon, Marette—"

"—Don't let the Chief Justice hear you say that, Your Grace!" She chuckles as she drags away the convict, leaving Wriothesley with his hands uselessly holding on to a book that has Neuvillette's name pristinely printed in the list of new arrivals.

Clorinde just left, having signed her name in a quick flourish. Underneath her name is Neuvillette's, in that familiar elegant script.

The Chief Justice is in the Fortress of Meropide.

Wriothesley can count on one hand the number of times the Iudex has visited his abode personally, most of those meetings occurring during the first year of his ascension to Administrator. Neuvillette wanted to assess him, then, though it only took one meeting for Neuvillette to decide that he was the right person for the job. The subsequent visits were mostly to see how Wriothesley's reforms and improvements were taking place, and then eventually, to talk of the trials up above.

To this day, Wriothesley still doesn't know what Neuvillette saw in him, and what made him so certain that he went as far as to submit a personal testimony to the Archon herself for Wriothesley to get his job and his title. Thus, it behooves him now to find out immediately what Neuvillette needs from him and assist the man going through all the trouble to come here.

The closer he gets to the office, the more obvious it is that Neuvillette indeed passed through the front gates, with inmates whispering and gossiping with each other while the Fortress Guards are at full attention. The strange mood prevails when Wriothesley passes by, his footsteps echoing during a sudden bout of eerie silence, until they think he's out of earshot and the conversations start anew.

"–Chief Just–"

"–could he possibly want–"

"–His Grace–"

"–meeting? But he's never–"

"–scary-looking or is it just me–"

"What a lively day it's been," Wriothesley sighs to himself, as he throws open the doors to his office. He is instantly greeted by the soothing sounds of a jazzy song playing from the gramophone, the low timbre of Neuvillette's soft voice, and Sigewinne's high-pitched giggles. In contrast to the vigorous discussions outside that rushed him in, this singular moment of oasis makes him pause by the doorway, almost reluctant to break the soft mood.

At the sound of the door opening and closing, Sigewinne happily calls out, "Your Grace, is that you? Welcome back!"

"Having fun without me?" he teases. "In my house?"

He gets to the top of the stairs and his eyes lock on the sight of the Iudex standing by one of the bookcases right next to the couch, looking over the many titles that take up space on the shelves, fingers curled curiously over the spine of one –  The Concise Timeline of the Hydro Archon Focalors' Rise to Power, quite a compelling read if you're a fan of Furina. He turns his next when Wriothesley appears in view, but he doesn't move otherwise, not quite shy or embarrassed at being caught examining Wriothesley's scholarly interests.

"Welcome back," he says softly, and a warm feeling surges up in Wriothesley's chest, a tingling sensation caressing his spine like a lover's hands. It leaves him breathless, and wanting, thirsty for that last drop of water in the middle of the desert.

The thought of being greeted so sweetly by Neuvillette like this daily is like a flashbang exploding behind his eyelids, a fantasy so vivid he has to take a deep breath just to reply.

"Thanks for the warm welcome," he replies, trying for flippant and hoping it lands.

He hasn't seen Neuvillette since their last business meeting, months ago, and before that – well. Before today, Wriothesley has had time to think about the intensity of the conversation between himself and the Chief Justice, and what it meant for both of them.

Neuvillette isn't the type to talk about personal matters, and Wriothesley feels compelled to keep secret the one time he does manage to make the Iudex open up to him. On the matter of trust, Wriothesley believes that the two of them think similarly – once broken, it will likely never be repaired.

In the meantime, Sigewinne is sitting on the couch, though it looks as though she's getting ready to leave now that he's here. A private conversation, then – Wriothesley has so many questions but holds off on all of them for now.

"Sigewinne assured me that you wouldn't mind," Neuvillette replies, "though I do apologize if my sudden appearance at the Fortress caused you some worry. I will not be here for too long, I assure you. I know all too well the impact my presence has in this place."

Wriothesley shrugs his worries off. "What's life without a few surprises? You're a sight for sore eyes, at least. What can I do for you?"

Before Neuvillette answers, Sigewinne hops over him. "Thank you for spending some time with me, Monsieur Neuvillette," she says sweetly. "Next time, why don't I visit you at the Palais? I have some vacation time accrued! We can talk more about the waters in Natlan. Oh, and I can show you my Kamera film!"

"You are welcome to visit me any time." Neuvillette's small smile fills up the room, and his hand is ever so gentle as he pats Sigewinne's head. She rebukes Wriothesley whenever he tries to do the same, but she easily lets Neuvillette treat her like she is his child – the ideal father for all Melusines, indeed. "Just be sure to do so without giving His Grace any trouble."

"He wouldn't mind." In true brat-like fashion, she turns to stick her tongue out at him, at which he playfully scoffs. "Your Grace, I'll leave you to it!"

"Sorry, I think she's picking up a lot of bad habits from me." Wriothesley scratches the back of his neck as he approaches the other. "I swear, she used to be very sweet."

"She still is," Neuvillette says mildly.

"I'm only joking." Wriothesley laughs. "No need to give me that look! She's a ray of sunshine in this dark, desolate underground." He starts puttering around, always in the mood for his favorite drink. "Want some tea? I got the Fontainian special restocked; I heard the folks upstairs love this one."

"That would be appreciated, thank you." Neuvillette goes back to examining his books. "There are more books here than the last time I visited. All very interesting choices." He pulls out a book,  The Boar Princess, which is placed in between collections of other novels of the same ilk. The glossy, embossed front page is as good as new, but any collector will know and be envious of the fact that what Wriothesley has in his collection is a well-preserved first edition. "And, all varied. I did not realize that you'd be so fond of children's books as well."

"A man's gotta have some hobbies." Wriothesley points at the book, not bothering to correct him about the fact that half the books in the office belonged to previous administrators, while the others are gifts that were declared to be safe (not bribes) — most of the ones that made it on his shelves are from people who gifted them out of the kindness of their hearts. "Also, that one is not a children's book, and I'll stand by that opinion no matter what."

"It is rather detailed," Neuvillette agrees. "There are rumors of an ongoing petition going around in Mondstadt to move this book from the children's book section to the restricted section."

"If I were a Modstadtian, you'd see my name on the first page," Wriothesley jokes. "But nah, I don't think that's going to get off the ground. Land of Freedom and all that. It's not the worst book in the world for a kid to read. Just a little graphic."

"I suppose it's human nature to want to protect a child's innocence in the early years. That's why you went to the surface today." Unsurprisingly, Neuvillette has heard about that, and that he's addressing it directly. "But that is also why you were the one to personally escort the criminal to the Fortress."

Human nature, sure – at its finest, perhaps. Wriothesley has… many things to say about that, but he refrains. He busies himself with his current task instead. After setting a nice steaming pot of steeped tea on the coffee table and pouring two cups for them both, he takes his cup and places it on his desk. He leans against the edge of it, fiddling with the collection of records next to the gramophone to find a new one as the current song dies down. The next record he plays is a short collection of quaint bagatelles that he's always been fond of.

Finally, he continues the conversation they've both silently decided to pause.

"You and I both know that at its worst, humanity can become the monsters they fear the most," he says, as nonchalant as he can make it. "Even love becomes a form of punishment."

"And the biggest irony of all is that the man hailed from the land that once held Love as its highest ideal. But no longer, and that is as true as the stars that hang above in the sky." Neuvillette huffs at the thought. He puts the book back on the shelf and makes his way to the couch, sitting on it as though it was made for him. "Has the child been placed?"

"Until a family member from Snezhnaya comes to pick her up, some foster parents I've personally vouched for are taking care of her," Wriothesley tells him, and Archon knows how stringent Wriothesley is when it comes to Fontaine's child foster system. For… reasons, he's made it his goal to personally investigate every person that goes through the system. "But I suspect that she'll be with them for a long time."

"She is, essentially, an orphan, until her father is released," Neuvillette confirms. No family, other than a wayward father. "However, Snezhnaya has much to say on the matter, seeing as the child is theirs by birth. The House of the Hearth has laid claim to her, and while they are currently under the control of a Fatui Harbinger and therefore one of the arms of the Tsaritsa, they technically own a legal branch currently operating within the Court of Fontaine."

"Ah, politics." Wriothesley shakes his head dramatically. "Could never wrap my head around all that."

The politics within Meropide are considerably different; he's quite literally the king of the castle and holds all the cards. He's well-liked by the Guards and the inmates alike within, and he has both Neuvillette and Furina's backing from the outside. Because he is also relatively unknown to most of the public, his name and reputation remain intact for as long as his titles and merit are attached to the Fortress. Because he is the Warden, the fewer overworlders interact with him, the better their lives are for the most part.

"Most of the trouble with this particular case will be mine to bear, so long as the man remains in your custody," Neuvillette assures him. "Snezhnaya may wish to talk, but they have learned long ago to respect Fontainian law for as long as they wish to retain friendly relations and remain within our borders."

Wriothesley smirks. "You scare them."

"I would not use that word," Neuvillette says neutrally, "but they usually know better than to come to my office unprepared."

Scared shitless, Wriothesley thinks to himself. "At least they get prior notice. Not like me," he adds pointedly.

Neuvillette quirks an eyebrow. "You did proclaim that I'm a sight for sore eyes."

"That I did," Wriothesley chuckles, "and both points stand. As pretty as you are, you sadly don't come here often."

Neuvillette blinks at him, before clearing his throat and picking up his teacup, almost hasty in his movements. He then completely ignores the line Wriothesley tries to feed him – or, if Wriothesley were to guess, he knows well enough that Wriothesley was complimenting him, but has no idea what to do with a rather facetious flirtation.

It's… frankly adorable. Wriothesley hides his grin by standing up and going around his desk, facing away for a brief moment to compose himself.

"As I said before, I do not mean to worry you," Neuvillette assures him. "But I do feel compelled to warn you about my observations regarding the actions of the Fatui, and how that might affect your operations here."

"There's always been Fatui inside the Fortress. Either those legitimately caught by the law, or spies intentionally getting captured for one reason or other. I allow them in my space, so long as they don't disrupt the peace or disobey my rules." Wriothesley plops down on his chair, arms crossed. "But I see your point. Today's criminal marks the thirteenth Snezhnayan you've convicted within the last two months. That's an especially high statistic when compared to other nations – barring ours, of course."

"The Fatui has always been active in Fontaine, as have other Snezhnayan envoys of varying professions, but even more so now. The fact that they are moving loudly enough to garner my attention is a matter of concern."

"Found a reason yet?"

"I can think of a few, yet none with any substance."

"Not yet," Wriothesley corrects him knowingly. "That's why you're here."

Neuvillette nods. "I understand that we have always worked separately on most professional matters, but I am hoping that you will lend me your aid and counsel this time. I have always welcomed your advice." Neuvillette looks away, and if Wriothesley doesn't know any better, he'd say that Neuvillette is feeling shy, of all things. "Your perspective has always been refreshing and has given me great insight on many matters, both within a professional setting and outside of it."

The answer comes to Wriothesley easily. "Sure."

Neuvillette seems surprised at that. "Truly?"

"I'm easy, and I have a lot of free time." The Fortress is so well-managed and well-staffed regardless of how often the number of 'resident changes', that he can make time for his leisurely pastimes. "And you're not bad to talk to."

"Then consider me in your debt, Wriothesley," Neuvillette offers magnanimously, as if a favor as grand as that is something so easily given.

"It's not a sacrifice for me to help you," Wriothesley adds, though he pointedly doesn't reject the offer. Regardless of how well they get along, a favor from the Chief Justice is a handy resource. "You know that, right?"

"Still, a request this big cannot be so one-sided," Neuvillette insists. "Were I to take up your time as I do now, instead of allowing you your personal pursuits, you might miss something else that you consider important. Time, and how to spend it, is of great value to humans, is it not?"

"Very much so, but the true value of it is in what, or who, we give our time to." Wriothesley smirks at him, "What, you don't think you're worth my time, Chief Justice Neuvillette?"

Neuvillette makes a soft sound under his breath – not quite a protest, but Wriothesley can't place it, just as he can't seem to figure out the expression currently on Neuvillette's face. Frustration, perhaps, or—

"I don't believe there's an answer to that question that would result in successfully escaping a quip from you," Neuvillette says – almost like he's grumbling.

Wriothesley hides his smile behind his teacup.

"You do not even deny it."

"I like keeping you on your toes."

Neuvillette huffs. "That does not surprise me at all."

"Don't pretend like you don't do the same," Wriothesley accuses him, though his words are a tease. "You're a wily one, Your Honor. You pretend to be this stoic, impeccable, and unaffected but I know what you are."

"Oh? What am I, Your Grace?"

Wriothesley thinks of their chat oceanside, a glowing Lumitoile passing between them alongside Neuvillette's smile as he discerns Wriothesley's capacity for kindness. He thinks of Neuvillette's attempts at studying his sense of humor, his attempts to match it, and at times surprising even Wriothesley himself when a joke lands. He thinks of the rain between his fingers, and Neuvillette's easy control of water that has Wriothesley reeling, suddenly giddy at the thought of unearthing his secrets.

He thinks of the silence that passes between them amid the downpour when Wriothesley stays and Neuvillette lets him in. He thinks of Neuvillette's trust in him, that he will break his unflappable mask of a man who stands as a symbol of absolute justice, solitary and lonesome.

Yet he sits on Wriothesley's couch and tells him that he values his insight, his words.

"You're someone worth my time, of course," he says simply, though he tacks on a cheeky grin. "For as long as you can keep up with me, that is."

"Yes," Neuvillette agrees, his lips twitching, "I daresay that is the challenge."

"Up to it?"

A smile softens Neuvillette's face, the light of a peeking sun. "I would not be here if I wasn't."

"I expect nothing less from the Chief Justice of Fontaine, although speaking of you being here," Wriothesley taps his fingers on the table, immersed in sudden thoughts, "I really don't mind you showing up without notice, and I'm more than happy to host you if you decided to step in the Fortress again, but there wouldn't happen to be another reason that you showed up unannounced, would there? I mean, I  wasn't here to welcome you… and you said Sigewinne allowed you in."

"Very sharp," Neuvillette commends him. "It's nothing exciting, however. I intended to send a courtesy letter telling you of my express intention to visit for the reasons I've already told you, but Sigewinne sent hers first. She invited me here and claimed that you would not mind. She told me that you would even be happy to see me."

Wriothesley pauses. "She did?"

"Yes."

Sigewinne is good at hiding her secrets, but Neuvillette doesn't lie. She would have invited him, and assured him that it was alright, that Wriothesley would be pleased to see him, and perhaps tack on how she is excited for his visit – all truths, but there are missing factors. Why would she do it, and why Neuvillette? How does she know, anyway?

…But in hindsight, these questions are simple to answer. If he deigns to look back to their previous conversations surrounding Neuvillette, where he asks the non-questions, she's always given him the right answers. Sigewinne is simply getting too good at reading people, and in all fairness, Wriothesley is her favorite victim. He is human and has layers, which she peels as one would peel a bulle fruit. She enjoys his reactions, especially when she's able to hit the nail on the head and figure out what he's feeling and what he's thinking.

He's never discouraged her in anything. It may yet be his downfall.

"I mean, she's not wrong," he clears his throat, and swallows a small, but rising sense of mortification by gulping up his slightly lukewarm tea.

"Perhaps I could invite you to come up to the surface more often," Neuvillette offers, none the wiser to his inner thoughts. "As much as I would like to spend more time here with you, we both know that I cannot. Even I can feel the unease permeating outside your office at the mere mention of my presence."

"Yeah, not a fun feeling," Wriothesley agrees. "Well, when you send that invite I'll be there. I'm kinda worried about your schedule, but as long as your side's handled, I can jump in and answer your call any time."

"Please do not worry about my schedule," Neuvillette says with certainty. "Busy as I am, it is not impossible for me to move less important things aside to temporarily give you precedence. I vow to always make time for our talks."

"Hah, you're really something else." He stands up, carefully carrying his teacup so that he can fill it with more tea. He's going to lose his mind otherwise. "Uh, anyway… how long can you stay here today? I can make you some more tea, too."

"I have another hour free," Neuvillette answers. "Lady Furina has asked that I accompany her for dinner tonight, however–"

"There's not going to be a sudden prison riot if you decide to stay here a little while longer," he jokes casually. "And if I'm wrong, I'll handle it. I haven't used my gloves in a while, now that I think about it..."

"Wriothesley."

"Okay, okay, I won't," Wriothesley placates him with a soft laugh and a wave of his hand. "Seriously, though. All they're doing outside is talking. They probably used their credit coupons to slack off work so they could gossip about what we're talking about here. Nothing's going to catch on fire or anything — uh, hopefully."

"If you're certain…"

"I am," Wriothesley says firmly. "Stay."

Neuvillette relaxes. "All right. Then I will."

Chapter Text

Wriothesley and Neuvillette agree, later on, that the particulars of their current clandestine endeavor are going to be a part of a long waiting game.

Wriothesley's cry of politics hits the biggest issue square in the head; it's also one of the main reasons why Neuvillette asked for his assistance in the first place. The Fatui have eyes and ears almost everywhere, but they have a harder time getting information in and out of the Fortress due to Wriothesley's exacting management.

There's not much to do other than observe – for now.

In the meantime, he carries on with his duties. Managing the Fortress, avoiding Sigewinne's milkshakes, tiring people out in the Pankration RIng… and listening in on the gossip circle circulating the Fortress.

"...that Mr. Callas' daughter wants to reopen his case. Poor girl…"

"...heard? They still can't find pieces of E…"

"...been sunny all week, mind you. Can't trust the newspaper any…"

"...magicians, heard they're pretty good, even Lady Furina…"

"...berets? Tacky as fuck…"

"...water levels aren't the same. Saw those hills I used to…"

"... want to volunteer? That's…"

"Your Grace!" One of the Fortress Gardes salutes as he walks past, on his way back to his office. "My apologies for disturbing you, but Monsieur Mortimer wants to have an audience with you before he leaves. He said you still need to sign his exit papers."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Wriothesley claps the guard on his shoulder. "Send him up."

"Yes, sir."

Monsieur Mortimer is an elderly archaeologist from the Insititute who got so focused on the work that he forgot to walk his dog for five days straight – which is, in its ineffable ridiculousness, illegal, as Fontainians must walk their dogs once a day, minimum. Caught slacking by his nosy neighbor (who, despite his intentions to be of service to Fontaine's judicial system, is also spending time at the Fortress, serving time for prowling on around Monsieur Mortimer's backyard to catch him in the heinous act of animal cruelty), Monsieur Mortimer was sentenced to fifteen days in the Fortress and fined for each day he admitted to not walking his dog.

He will, of course, be subjected to a harsher sentence if he decides to forgo such an important task again in the future. And by the grace of the Hydro Archon, he is allowed to keep his venerated title as an honored member of Fontaine's peerage as long as he follows the rules.

"Thought you'd be eager to go home by now, Monsieur Mortimer," Wriothesley says to the elderly man who gets to the top of the stairs. "Not to say that we don't like having you here, of course, but you've got someone waiting for you, I think."

Currently, the aforementioned dog is staying with his niece, who has a five-year-old daughter who absolutely loves the dog and walks him not once, but twice a day. Sometimes three, if the family letters are to be believed.

"Plouf is in good hands," Monsieur Mortimer assures him. "The family is quite taken with him. I am already thinking that it may just be best for him to stay with a family that will take care of him intently, and without fail. I've long since gone past that age, I'm afraid. I forget many things."

Wriothesley hums, "Oh? Just like how you've forgotten that you're already a free man?"

Wriothesley signed his exit papers the day before, as he does with every exile who is given a chance at free life above ground after spending time in the Fortress. it is then sent to the receptionist desk, so that they may expedite someone's route to freedom and hand them the calling card of their new life without the metaphorical chains of imprisonment.

So, this excuse to see him in his office is nothing more than a secret code. Everyone in the Fortress knows that if you want to speak to the Administrator, there are words you can say, "The care package from my family was sent to the Duke's office" being the most common phrase. Wriothesley's favorite, of course, are words said by free men with one last piece of wisdom to impart to him before they leave – "The Duke still needs to sign my exit papers".

Monsieur Mortimer has the good grace to laugh, "This old man begs His Grace's forgiveness for his many follies, but that is not quite one of them. After all, a talk with the elusive Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide is hard to come by."

"Well, better sit down, then." Wriothesley gestures to the couch next to his desk. "I was just brewing myself a pot of tea. Any preference?"

"Two cubes of sugar," Monsieur Mortimer says as he sits down. "With a dash of milk, if you're so inclined."

"And here I thought that you were a man of culture, Monsieur," Wriothesley jokes but he eventually returns to give the man his choice of drink before sitting down behind his desk. "You're lucky that I don't abuse my authority, or you'd be spending a longer sentence in this Fortress for having terrible tea preferences."

Monsieur Mortimer takes a sip from the offered cup. "It's not so bad a place. Not like the stories running rampant throughout the court after every highly publicized scandal. You have made it your own, which is more than I can say concerning the previous Administrator."

"You knew him?"

"A scoundrel if I've ever met one," Monsieur Mortimer scowls. "He exhorted the Institute and strong-armed unfair contracts to his favor because he knew how much we valued the Akhium crystals in the mine shaft underneath the Fortress."

Wriothesley snorts. "I'd call that a shrewd businessman."

"The lives of all Fontainians are at stake, and yet the money that came from conducting business with the Insititute was all he cared for. A far cry from what this Fortress used to stand for." Monsieur Mortimer scoffs. "You are not as callous, are you?"

Wriothesley sidesteps the question with ease. "Monsieur Neuvillette likes to say that it's more akin to a gathering place for exiles, but a prison is still a prison no matter how much we prettify the name. What it stands for remains the same as it's always been."

"But it is a Fortress," Monsieur Mortimer emphasises. "Surely you know what that means."

Wriothesley knows what he means, of course: the Fortress of Meropide is Fontaine's largest stronghold outside of Palais Mermonia, fortified by time and cultivated by its history half-lost at sea. It is the bastion of security at the bottom of the sea; while others see being left to the nothingness of the dark sea floor as a death sentence in itself, the Fortress has become a refuge for the exiled who wish to call a place their own. It is an independent place of exceptional defensive capabilities, that is neither susceptible to outside influences, nor weak enough to crumble at the smallest flick of a finger.

"There's a rumor going around that a free man is volunteering to stay here," Wriothesley says, after a thoughtful silence. "All jokes aside, what is it about a decrepit old fortress that has you so interested, old man? It's not exactly a cozy retirement home."

"There's no crime quite like being an outsider in one's nation," Monsieur Mortimer muses. "To be so ostracized by one's people, that the only choice left is to live out one's life as an exile in perpetuity. Residents of the Fortress are labeled as sinners looking for penance. Though you use another term, or so I heard when I first stepped foot in these halls – a rebirth, is it?"

Wriothesley shrugs. "Every house has its rules; mine's no different."

"Rules. And secrets, yes?" Monsieur Mortimer pointedly looks away, to the left of the office, and eyes cast down. "Have you found yours, Your Grace? Perhaps at the bottom of the sea, something is waiting for you to discover. I wager that right underneath this very office, there is a secret worth knowing."

"..." Wriothesley sets his teacup down loudly. "And what would you know of the Fortress' secrets, Monsieur?"

Monsieur Mortimer chuckles, turning back to Wriothesley. "Would you like to hear a story?"

"Special Fatui operatives, you say?" Neuvillette accepts the stack of papers from Wriothesley, flipping it over with great interest. "Intelligence?"

"I believe the usual groups we see out and about are simply the scouting party, and these individuals are the real threat that we need to watch out for," Wriothesley says as he makes his way back to the couch off to the side of the room, settling in cozily as he prepares the tea Neuvillette graciously ordered for their current meeting. 

"And you say that they have been seen mostly in the north?"

"Mostly in Liffey, and there's some around the Institute Region," Wriothesley says. "They've taken to befriending some of the local treasure hunters, obviously searching for something. If there are more of them, they'll show themselves eventually."

"Oh?"

"This is the first time a large number of them have been spotted out in the open," Wriothesley explains. "Unprecedented, if my sources are to be believed."

Neuvillette purses his lips. "Do you think they've found what they've been looking for?"

"The opposite, I think," Wriothesley counters. "They're out and about when they usually aren't. They want us to know they're here, but they're not leaving just yet because they don't have anything of substance to show. A scare tactic if you will, so that if you surely have what they need or at least a way to get it, you will know that there's someone in the shadows watching your every move."

Neuvillette puts this into consideration as he falls into a contemplative silence, and Wriothesley has no doubt that he is sorting out centuries' worth of knowledge, wisdom, and history in that beautiful head of his. "If I knew what they were looking for," Neuvillette says, "then perhaps that will shed some light on the mystery."

"That isn't really what I should concern myself with," Wriothesley says with a shake of his head. "I'd focus on ensuring that nothing untoward happens to yourself and Lady Furina. Let the Gardiennage conduct their investigations out in the open as they always have, and let the Fatui think what they will regarding what you have or don't have in your sleeves. Keep the status quo, and someone will come forward eventually to shake it once their patience runs out. The truth will always reveal itself; sometimes you just have to wait."

Neuvillette hums in recognition, "I remember, this is a tactic you enjoy using."

Wriothesley chuckles. "Well, if it works, why not try it?"

"Perhaps so," Neuvillette agrees. "I must say, your read on the situation makes one believe that you already know everything there is to know."

"You flatter me, but in truth, I know as much as you do when it comes to the facts," Wriothesley says. "A lot of what I said is mere guesswork, spurned from plausible leaps of logic and my insight on how humans work, as well as personal experience."

"And yet, I will not be surprised if everything you said rings true."

With that, Neuvillette stands up and makes his way to the couch, sitting primly next to Wriothesley like he always does now when they get down to business, picking up his preferred goblet of water over tea at the same time he picks up a small stack of paper with his free hand.

Wriothesley equates this to Neuvillette letting his hair down and relaxing in his presence. The Chief Justice he used to know did not do so much as twitch from behind his desk whenever Wriothesley came in with his report. But now, he is leaning back in his seat, letting his shoulders fall, heaving a sigh after falling into a comfortable sitting pose as the ends of his silver hair curls next to him, tied neatly with a big bow that draws Wriothesley eyes to it like a large, glaring neon sign.

"Have you ever cut your hair?" He asks, out of the blue, because it's just so difficult to keep his mouth shut.

"I have not, and I never will," Neuvillette answers, giving him a side-eye that is equal parts confused and offended at the question. "Is there a problem?"

"It's just a question," Wriothesley looks on with amusement. He should've expected that this response, what with how carefully put together Neuvillette always looks. "Is it so terrible to ask?"

"It is not a question others often ask me," Neuvillette admits. "Especially not while working ." He looks at Wriothesley as though he's just committed a grievous crime.

"Conversations at work don't have to be about work all the time." Wriothesley puts his hands up, a soft surrender. "How would I get to know my co-workers and subordinates otherwise? Their files ?" He laughs at the thought of reading more paperwork. "That's just more work for so little return. I'd rather just sit and talk, and ask questions."

"And you find that asking inane questions works better?"

"Sometimes, what's on paper doesn't reflect the person it's about," Wriothesley explains. "Take you, for example. Because of this conversation, I've concluded that you are, hm. Sensitive. About your hair."

"I am not," Neuvillette replies primly.

Holding up a finger, Wriothesley barrels on, "Thus, it makes me believe that even the venerated Iudex of Fontaine, beloved by the people, cares very much about his appearance."

"My appearance needs to reflect my position as the highest judge in the land—"

"But it also tells me," Wriothesley interrupts him, now holding up two fingers, "that the Iudex, who some believe to be unfeeling and impartial in all matters, has some things he feels very strongly about it. This is only one thing, and this one thing won't be written about the books you read in the libraries – it's something I only knew by asking a very simple question."

"You truly believe that just because you asked about my hair?"

"Well," Wriothesley grins in wicked satisfaction, "am I wrong?"

"Were you truly interested in knowing this part of me, a direct question would have sufficed. I would have answered it truthfully." Neuvillette sighs, and as though subconsciously, he sets the papers down on the leg crossed over the other to run his fingers through his hair. "You are not wrong. I take pride in my appearance. I am in the eye of the public most of the time, thus I need to look my best when presenting myself to others at court."

"Neuvillette, be serious," Wriothesley wants to laugh, honestly. "You could sit in your chair at the Opera Epiclese in the casual clothes you wear at home and people would still say you look good." And they'd be right. "Of course, the Steambird would run that story like they're being chased by Rishboland tigers in the rainforest."

"I dare not." Neuvillette's face scrunches at the thought, scandalized by the imagery.

"Suit yourself," Wriothesley shrugs. "Seriously, though. Don't you agree that getting to know someone face to face is much better than reading about them? As the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide, I get to know many people through the contents of their inmate registration papers, but that doesn't mean that's all there is to know about them. You agree, don't you?"

"Ah," Neuvillette looks him in the eye, and very likely, their thoughts have converged to that single moment in time when their paths first collided — often left unspoken, but never forgotten. "Of course I do. There is more to a person than the crimes they've committed in the past."

Wriothesley huffs. "Yeah, so. Anyone can forge information on a piece of paper" – a fact that he knows well, considering – "but watching their reactions, listening to their answers. Even the unspoken lies become real because you get your chance to separate truth from fiction."

"You are right," Neuvillette sighs.

"You should've gotten used to it by now," Wriothesley teases.

"That is one thing that I should have learned about you earlier, I suppose," Neuvillette plays along with a smile, once again a far cry from the Chief Justice who would ask him if he's being literal about an obvious joke. Of course, that part isn't perfect – Neuvillette misses his cues from time to time – but those moments delight Wriothesley all the same. "What question could I have asked that would've given me that answer, Your Grace?"

"I'm not about to help you cheat your way out of getting to know me better, Monsieur Neuvillette," Wriothesley warns with a smile, utterly unserious, and feeling just a little bit silly. "Ask your questions, and maybe I'll tell you."

And just as he's expected, Neuvillette takes that as a challenge.

It becomes a game to them, all things considered.

Wriothesley would walk into Neuvillette's office, or Neuvillette would exchange personal letters with him when they were not able to meet. The Chief Justice would ask his questions, while Wriothesley answers them as best as he can without revealing too much of himself (a difficult mission in and of itself, when Neuvillette himself takes up a sizable chunk in Wriothesley's past).

Most of the time, whatever he says seems to satisfy whatever tally Neuvillette has regarding Wriothesley's character.

"Have you considered owning a pet?"

"And keep it locked up in the Fortress? I don't think they'd enjoy that."

"...If you don't mind me saying, that's kind of you. Hopefully, you'll find a pet that you'll be allowed to keep."

"Stickers?"

"All the time, everywhere."

"But you let them. You surely have a soft spot for the Melusines."

"Sadly enough, I probably do."

"Milk with coffee, but not tea?"

"Sugar only. I like to savor the taste."

"Your contradictions follow you even to your taste in drinks."

Neuvillette gets better at it, as time goes on. Although, whether he's getting better at conversations or at knowing Wriothesley, he can't say. Neuvillette doesn't tell him of any attempts he may have made to get to know others, and Wriothesley doesn't push the issue too much in case Neuvillette really is uncomfortable when conversing with others. Wriothesley knows when and when not to push buttons.

Of course, not every question is about his personal life. Neuvillette, being himself, still asks about things related to work, but Wriothesley has come to expect it. You can't take the man too far from what he knows and is used to, or he'll flounder about like a fish out of water.

And then there's the rare occasion where Neuvillette manages to ask a question that peels into Wriothesley's layers, unearthing his secrets one way or another.

"I've been informed that you visited the Research Institute's current headquarters recently. Is it true?"

"Spying on me, Monsieur Neuvillette?" Wriothesley smirks.

"Of course not," Neuvillette says, with a voice that almost compels Wriothesley to believe him. "It was a topic of conversation that reached the ears of one of the Melusines, and I thought it could be a good talking point for the two of us."

"And this Melusine just happens to be a part of the elite Marechaussee Phanthom, right?" Wriothesley asks dryly, just to poke. "Just happenstance."

Neuvillette narrows his eyes. "You and I both know that if you wish to keep your affairs a secret from prying eyes, you are more than capable of doing so."

"Prying eyes… like yours?" Wriothesley continues to goad. Neuvillette sighs, but Wriothesley only cackles. "Sorry, but you keep leaving me openings like that. Don't worry, I don't particularly mind. Like you said, I can keep my secrets even from you if I want to. It's just that… asking after my affairs without being prompted or pointed towards it… it used to be pretty uncharacteristic of you, that's all. I guess you're taking my advice to heart."

"I see," Neuvillette pauses, looking as though he's been caught in some act he shouldn't be doing. "I suppose I've gotten used to you answering all my questions."

Wriothesley would have pointedly raised his eyebrows to that, but he didn't. He simply stares at Neuvillette when the man dips his head in shy acknowledgment and returns to signing paperwork, a task he's been doing for the last half hour while Wriothesley reviews new trial records to plan for the acquisition of new Fortress residents.

Ah, perhaps Wriothesley has killed the mood so suddenly by pointing it out? Neuvillette rarely initiates idle conversation when they're working together, after all, but he's been making various attempts. One of these days, Wriothesley will stop brazenly pointing out every single detail and simply accept his fate as Neuvillette's chosen guinea pig.

"I'm hiring a couple of technical consultants to help me in the Fortress' production zone," Wriothesley confesses, to keep the flow of conversation between them.

"There's nothing wrong with the production quality, I hope."

"No, not at all, but surely there are some aspects of our current technology we can improve on," Wriothesley says. "People tinker with our machines all the time, but it's been a while since we've officially released anything new on the table. Fontaine's technological advances improve day by day, and even Meropide's infamous clockwork meka production should reflect that."

Neuvillette hums and stews on that thought for a while, as he always does whenever he gets to the precipice of an important conversation. He tends to weigh the pros and cons, and Wriothesley is all but willing to give him all the time he needs to think things through.

In the meantime, Wriothesley is indulging himself with his steeped tea, using a new blend of Electro-infused sakura blooms specially delivered from Inazuma. With the recent lift of the Sakoku Decree, trade between Fontaine and Inazuma has been slowly getting traction. Wriothesley has taken advantage of this boon by ordering large batches of imported tea to the Fortress, and delivered a few boxes as gifts, Neuvillette being one such recipient. To his lack of surprise, Neuvillette has also been importing his choice of Inazuman goods – water, of course, procured straight from the deep, whirling waters of Watatsumi Island.

Eventually, while Wriothesley is mulling over his tea in comfortable silence, Neuvillette makes his decision. He raises his head from his papers and says, "Is that why you deem it appropriate to speak to researchers with a connection to Edwin Eastinghouse and his Arkhium experiments?"

Wriothesley chuckles at the callout. "And you say you're not spying on me, Monsieur. Have I finally caught you in a lie?"

"Is that an accusation? I don't believe I have told you anything that proves my guilt." Neuvillette grants him a sudden, small smile, a slow curl of his lips that gives the distinct impression of a satisfied predator. "You've more so caught my curiosity if anything, but I will stand by what I said should you decide to press your charges."

"And put the revered Iudex himself on trial? Perish the thought," Wriothesley grins back. "Even the Oratrice itself won't side with me."

"Then I suppose it is your admission of guilt that we must turn to."

"Pressuring me so quickly? List my offenses, then."

"Ah, I believe that's simple," Neuvillette says. "If there was nothing amiss, you would have sent a letter to me requesting the addition of reliable staff from any specific field you wish. Just as I trust that you will never ask for more than what you need, you've always trusted and appreciated my judgment – you've said this yourself. You would have been fine with the staff I sent you."

He's right, of course, though Wriothesley attempts to keep a neutral face. If they were facing down at court, Wriothesley would've been on the losing side of the scales and preparing for his own arrest.

"In light of that, you then decided to source out specific types of researchers - ones that are not connected to the Institute's clockwork meka engineering department, like Mr Maillardet who is currently working on the Icewind Suite. You interviewed them yourself and then maneuvered around all the red tape that came with placing them in the Fortress as full-time consultants. From what I hear, they have entered the Fortress with petty crimes attached to their names."

"'Disturbing the peace at the Fountaine of Lucine on a weekend that falls on a statutory holiday, while a midday court trial is in session', if you want to be more precise," Wriothesley quotes because if he's memorized anything in the law books, it's Fontaine's stupidest laws (if asked, he just says it's because they're hilarious). "They have very loud arguments."

"If I were a guessing man, I'd say that you provoked them to it."

"My dear Iudex, I simply asked a question regarding their personal relationship," Wriothesley says, faux scandalized, a hand to his heart. "Is that a crime?"

Neuvillette abruptly shakes his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "It is an act of deviance, that which you would know better than anyone."

"I suppose I'll allow that egregious mark on my honor, and without proof, if I may add," Wriothesley tells him graciously. "All jokes aside, you're right, of course. Jurieu was Edwin Eastinghouse's assistant, thus one of the pioneering researchers of Arkhium technology still alive to this day. I hired him and his assistant Lourvine to be my consultants, and they've both agreed to the arrangements. I'll send you a copy of their official contracts shortly after they finish their stint in the Fortress as regular inmates – and before you ask, they both agreed to do it. You'll have to excuse me for saying so, but it's much faster than getting paperwork processed through the Maison Gestion."

"Do you intend to reopen the mine shaft under the Fortress?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Wriothesley shakes his head. "We both know Arkhium is dangerous in the wrong hands; the floating water cubes are a testament to that. To incorporate it in our research, it'll need to be used in small controlled doses until we find a use for it that isn't blowing up the Fortress."

Neuvillette gives him a look.

"Yeah, I know," Wriothesley snorts. Ah, to once again be so scolded by the Chief Justice with a single look. He leans back in his seat, crossing his legs and resting his arm over the backrest, as casual as one can be inside the Chief Justice's office. "Frankly, you should take a look at Jurieu's track record before you judge him. He's not as obsessed with those glowing crystals as Edwin."

"Eastinghouse was once venerated in his field and often praised for his ingenuity and intellect. At one point, there were high hopes for his project on the Arkhium-based field generators."

"People tend to change their minds fairly quickly when big explosions are involved."

"I do know Mr. Jurieu, as a matter of fact, even before his posting as Eastinghouse's assistant," Neuvillette reveals. "He graduated with honors after his thesis project on the relationship between Teyvat's laws of gravity and Fontaine's natural resonance with the Hydro element received distinguished commendation after it was published. I don't disagree with your assessment of him, but I do think that the foundations of a student's core knowledge are rooted in the lessons taught by their mentors."

Wriothesley shrugs. "What's life without a few fireworks?"

"I will make another guess," Neuvillette says like he's announcing a verdict, but there's warmth in his eyes as he plays along with Wriothesley's pointless little games. "You did not lie to me, but you were not wholly truthful, either. It is not only technical improvements on machines that you wish to use their knowledge on, but a brand new design with Arkhium's energy at its base, perhaps something that will shake the foundations of modern Fontainian technology. Your personal goal is important enough to warrant your time, as well as mine – since you've allowed me to sit here and mull over the whole thing, as though you've planned this very scenario in your head."

Sharp as a tack, as always, to contrast the bluntness of his delivery. Wriothesley doesn't bother hiding his laughter, and they echo freely within Neuvillette's office.

"I mean, for the record, this meeting was always planned," Wriothesley tries to deflect, as he gathers his thoughts. "We always talk about the Fortress' production zone every meeting."

"You were always going to talk to me about this."

"How much do you value my opinion?" Wriothesley asks. "Whatever you say, I wager my estimation of you is double – no, triple that. Yes, Neuvillette, I was always going to tell you. I was trying to prepare all my points with facts and numbers, which I know you like, but you beat me to it. I thought I might as well make a show of it."

Neuvillette's eyes glitter with something Wriothesley can't define – a sign of happiness, perhaps? Maybe triumph, that he'd been right all along? At the very least, he looks happy enough.

"You give up so easily, Your Grace," he says, and it feels like Neuvillette is teasing him, if not testing him.

"I've just learned how to pick the right battles," Wriothesley responds. "Besides, I don't see this as a forfeit. There's no loss to give when we can both be winning."

Neuvillette continues to look visibly pleased, almost glowing with it. "State your claims, then."

"Do you ever feel," Wriothesley rubs his chin in thought, "like we're just sitting on a ticking time bomb? Waiting for it to go off? We know it's there, but no one knows how to defuse it."

"You are talking about the prophecy." Neuvillette catches on quickly, marked by how easily his demeanor switches at the mention of what can only be considered a national catastrophe. "We have not seen evidence of people dissolving in the water these last centuries I have lived in Fontaine."

"That's certainly for the better, but the water levels have been rising year after year despite that," Wriothesley reminds him. "Sooner or later, we will all pay the price for our ignorance and negligence. I'm not the kind to believe in prophecies or predestined fate, but I don't fancy the thought of potentially dissolving in the water like a sugar cube, either."

Perhaps that's the thought that sobers Neuvillette up immediately, the very real thought of losing Fontainians in the waters that they're surrounded by daily. To him, and all Fontainians that live above ground, water is likely something pure and precious, even holy, as it is the domain of the god they worship. Nothing could be more ironic than the fact that the very thing they worship is what will cause their damnation.

Wriothesley has looked on through the windows of the topmost floor of the Fortress' entrance when he gets the chance and is often reminded that even the most benign things can be the deadliest. Water comes in many forms, and takes many shapes. To the residents of the Fortress of Meropide, it's both their cage and their home – the water that embraces them and traps them where they stand.

To that end, water becomes both the weapon and their salvation. They must know exactly how to swing the sword, and to take it in their hands, lest it's used to chop off all their heads.

"I only hope," Neuvillette says, "that you are being careful."

"I'm not out to save Fontaine through some farfetched ideal like bringing the entire city above ground," Wriothesley says, scrunching his face in mild horror. "I'd officially be crazier than a crazy scientist who blew up his workplace."

"Ah," Neuvillette says in a tone Wriothesley has yet to hear from him before. He looks up just in time to see Neuvillette looking off to the side, his fingers curled under his chin. "No, what I mean to say is, since you are heading down a path that involves danger in every turn, it would be in your best interest to curb any thoughts of recklessness."

"You're conflating 'reckless' with 'headstrong'," Wriothesley points out. "I'm one, but not the other. Rarely ever both."

"You do not have to be either."

"Neuvillette, if you're worried, just tell me."

His movements are carefully controlled, thus if Wriothesley wasn't already watching, he would've completely missed Neuvillette's pause, the narrowed eyes, and the swift inhale. Worried, for a man as self-sufficient and capable as Wriothesley. And what a novelty that is, to be so thought of by someone most assume to be an untouchable soul, akin to a god among men.

Neuvillette admits to his concern with great difficulty; Wriothesley assumes that he rarely ever says it out loud to anyone other than himself, if at all.

"I am worried," he says. "You are important to this nation."

That makes Wriothesley laugh. "Right, the nation. Well, you can tell the nation that I'll be as careful as I can be."

After a beat he gives into the urge and stands up, walking towards Neuvillette's desk until he's standing right across from him. He leans forward, laying both his hands flat on the table as he looks at the Iudex, who returns his gaze, still with that indecipherable shine to them, the set of his mouth curled down in a displeased, but ultimately, resigned frown.

"Thanks for caring," he says, as sincerely as he can manage. "But, should it come to it, you need to remember that I'm not the kind of person who just sits back and relaxes if there's something I can do to help fix problems."

"I am aware of that."

"Then don't forget what I am."

"What you are?"

"A survivor," Wriothesley smirks, and as expected, Neuvillette's eyes drop for a half-second to the scarred lines on his body, trailing down starting from his neck to the visible part of his chest, before he raises his eyes again – a fitting reminder of a past long buried by them both. "Of all the questions you've asked me, not one of those questions told you that?"

"I did not need to ask you anything that would confirm that, because I already know who you are," Neuvillette divulges, and that's too fucking real for even Wriothesley to counter. "Forgive me, Your Grace," he adds after, looking down at his curled hands. "Once again, I should be used to saying it, but you are right. I am worried for you."

Wriothesley's heart leaps to his throat, suddenly overcome with the urge to jump over the desk and shake this man silly. Maybe hug him. Maybe reach out to curl his fingers around his neck to pull his face toward him, so that he can see just how seriously Wriothesley is taking him. Maybe wipe that frown off his face with his hands, his lip—

Damn, he thinks, feeling his heart bounce, trying to eviscerate his ribs by beating too loudly from behind his chest. He's a disaster of a human being, just from a few words full of care.

"I'm not leaping into my death by hiring a couple of scientists," he tries to make light of it, pulling back from his hunched-over position, and straightening his back with a light cough. "Please, I like living. How am I going to get my tea if I'm dead? Moreover, that's the whole reason I'm doing this in the first place–"

"—because of tea?" Neuvillette interjects.

"—for Archon's sake, I walked right into that one," Wriothesley can't help but crack up at the stupidest joke he's heard in a while. "Just when I'm trying to get serious–"

"My apologies."

"—I'm begging you, please don't adopt my sense of humor." It's Wriothesley's turn to sigh this time, and all he can feel for the moment is extreme affection that lingers. "All jokes aside, let's not be too dramatic about this, alright? Unless we all actually end up dying in the water. Let's take this day by day for now."

"For now, yes," Neuvillette agrees easily, fighting a smile. "In any case, thank you for all that you do, Wriothesley. Should you need anything—"

"I know," Wriothesley says warmly. "I'll call for you."

Chapter Text

"You were right."

"I'm sure I was. The question is: regarding what?" Wriothesley sighs at the sight of Clorinde climbing up the stairs to his office. "You're gonna have to wait a few minutes for the water to boil before I offer you a cup of tea."

"That's a first."

"I wasn't exactly expecting a guest," Wriothesley says dryly, "seeing as I'm working ."

"You're just full of surprises today."

"And you're full of jokes today." Wriothesley drops the paperwork he's been doing, knowing that he'll get nothing done while the interloper remains skulking about in his office. "Has the apocalypse come to the surface? Is the prophecy coming true and Fontaine's flooding? It's the only reason you'd be here without notice."

"Unlike you, I actually work." Clorinde drops a stack of papers on his desk. "The reports you asked for, from the Institute's hydrological studies."

Wriothesley clicks his tongue as he reviews them, comparing the numbers with his calculations. "This goes back years," he says, noting the length of the reports far surpasses his, the calculations becoming increasingly hypothetically the older it got, as technology back then may not have accounted for certain advancements that are now prevalent in his time. "And you're sure they didn't mind you taking them?"

"Who's going to use them?" Clorinde says as she plops down on the couch. "Half their staff moved on to greener pastures."

"Or a rusty pipe at the bottom of the sea," Wriothesley says dryly as he recounts the number of intellectual and physical thefts and fencing in the black markets that occurred after the Institute blew up. He sighs, yet again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe I'm saying this and to you of all people, but I don't like being right this time."

"You and I both," Clorinde says. "What now?"

"We plan." Wriothesley leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. The slow rising of seawater is one thing, and something he can plan for, the dissolution of humans aside. He just needs many things – money, people, and the right timing.

The right time.

Time.

And what is time if not the passage of history, from one point to the next? Is that not how the saying goes – 'oceans will rise, empires will fall, and the only constant is change'? Remuria attempted to bypass a predicted outcome, swallowed by the sea thereafter, and now history is asked to repeat in a cycle.

At what point in time is history allowed to end?

"You have to go back to the surface before anyone catches you here," Wriothesley says, after a moment of contemplation. Clorinde has been quiet all the way, and when he opens his eyes again, he realizes that she's been silently watching him. He can only wonder what she sees. "I'm surprised you got in here without a hassle."

"No one would dare bother me." Clorinde's eyes sharpen. "Are they on to you?"

Wriothesley lifts a hand, palm down, and rotates it right and left for the universal indicator of 'so-so'. "If the problem is the water itself, then there are only two many places you should start looking," he offers, knowing that she will take the gesture for what it is. "The prophecy makes it clear where we need to start looking for clues, anyway. All the way down here at the bottom of the sea where the sinners reside, or…"

"...Or all the way up, where the hydro archon sits alone on her throne," Clorinde finishes for him. "You think Lady Furina's in trouble?"

"Not yet," Wriothesley says.

"And you're not in trouble," she says, making sure.

"Not yet," Wriothesley repeats, with a much clearer emphasis this time. He opens his eyes and nods at her. "Thanks for coming; you'll get your pay the usual way. I'll take it from here for now."

Clorinde stands up, but can't help but tease, "I thought you were gonna offer me tea?"

"Consider this punishment," he says gravely, "for being the bearer of bad news."

She snorts, already heading out without much prompting. "You gonna tell him?" she asks, stopping briefly at the top of the stairs. "I think you should. He'll help."

"I know he will," Wriothesley says but leaves it at that.

"You've been very busy lately, Your Grace."

"Hm?" Wriothesley, while reading an unsurprisingly vapid editorial about Miss Furina from a well-known tabloid, replies distractedly, "I'm always busy." After a beat of silence, he folds the paper from the top, squinting at the Melusine by his desk, who arrives in his office to drop off some reports to go along with… a milkshake, to his quiet consternation. "I have been taking on more tasks, I admit, but nothing for the Fortress' Head Nurse to be worried over."

"Oh, I'm not worried," she shakes her head. "You're in better shape than most men your age."

"My dear Sigewinne, I hope you're not saying these things outside for all of Meropide to hear. You'll kill morale that way."

"I think it'd be the opposite," Sigewinne says thoughtfully. "Most humans feel comforted by the fact that there's someone stronger and wiser looking out for them. Isn't that why they worship the gods?"

Wriothesley's loud laughter echoes in his office, maybe even beyond it. "And now you're equating me to the divine. I must have done something extremely grievous to warrant this sort of blasphemy from you."

"Well, my next question would have been: are you experiencing a personal crisis?" she continues, as though she doesn't hear him talking. "I can't put my finger on it, but you've been different lately. Your routine has changed, and you've been piling on more work on your plate. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think you're experiencing some form of personal crisis, and you're doing all you can to distract yourself from it."

It's not as though much has changed with him. His daily routine has stayed the same, with the added responsibility of checking on his pet project under the Fortress. Somehow, his paperwork doubled, but he expected that. It's par for the course considering the amount of numbers he needs to run and the tests he needs to conduct before his little scientists do anything drastic.

He skulks plenty around the production zone – again, hardly worth the notice, considering that part of his duties is ensuring that the clockwork meka production is fully functioning at maximum capacity to meet the numerous requisition orders placed by the Palais regularly. While there's nothing too egregious about the current political climate, within and outside of the Court, he and Neuvillette both agreed that it's better to be safe than sorry. To add to that, his trips to the surface have increased; he's above the water at least once a week, and often he is close enough to visit the Palais or the Opera Epiclese, depending on where Neuvillette is. It's more so because he is invested in his project as well as the unofficial investigation he's started with the Iudex, both of which require his attention.

Outside of work, he visits the Pankration Ring plenty, drinks a lot of tea, reads a lot of books while listening to Monsieur Mortimer wax poetic about Remuria, does the daily crossword, hangs out with some inmates at the cafeteria, and bothers Sigewinne a normal amount in the infirmary before she kicks him out with a slap of a sticker on one of his boots as punishment.

In his humble opinion, he does a great job carrying out a proper example of a healthy work-life balance, which is not at all indicative of a 'personal crisis', whatever the fuck that means.

He puts down the newspaper and puts all of his attention on the tiny Melusine. "Alright, out with it. What can I do for you, Head Nurse?"

"I've been receiving several new patients in the Infirmary lately." She puts her hands on her hips. "You don't happen to know anything about that, do you?"

"I'm one man, you know," Wriothesley says flippantly. "How could I possibly know everything that's going on in the Fortress?"

"Hm-mm, but nothing for me to worry over, right?"

"Not a damn thing, of course," Wriothesley promises, with the acute knowledge that Sigewinne knows how he functions better than most. "But tell me about those patients, since you've mentioned them now. They're currently in your most capable hands, so I'm assuming they're all fine."

"Suddenly, you're so curious."

"Are you calling me heartless? Of course, I'd be curious about the injured people in my Fortress. Such possibilities need to be avoided."

"Even if they are Fatui?"

Wriothesley rests an elbow on his desk and leans forward. "Especially so, Sigewinne. You know how I like to entertain my guests. Unless you're in the Pankration Ring, no task here should involve blood, sweat, and tears. Even then, I'd like to avoid such outcomes there, too."

"Yes, I know very well, and you've been focused on making sure they're very safe and entertained here." Sigewinne frowns. "You even make sure that they keep to themselves in the Fortress so that they follow you up to the surface, too. Very magnanimous of you to ensure their safety, Your Grace."

"Isn't that what you've been trying to teach me all this time?" Wriotheley blinks, the picture of innocence and earnestness. "Safety first, right?"

"You just don't like being followed," Sigewinne accuses him, and she isn't wrong. "Lots of important business is happening on the surface for you. I would like to see you practice what you preach, though."

Wriothesley grunts. "Maybe someday."

Her face twists with amusement and exasperation, but she lets go of that conversation easily, getting quickly to the meat of their conversation. "They've been snooping around where they ought not to, particularly in the production zone," she informs him, and it reads like a report even though she isn't one of his informants. Still, he's grateful for her loyalty to the Fortress and the people in it, which undoubtedly includes him. "They're so very hard in what they're doing, too, I find myself compelled to give them complimentary meals sometimes so they don't run out of energy throughout the day."

"How thoughtful of you." Wriothesley almost shudders at the thought of receiving one of Sigewinne's meals, but he remains firmly neutral. "Let me know how that goes. Anything else?"

"They are curious about your new technical assistants" – as expected, he thinks – "but they fight so much that they can't seem to get a word out to even ask a simple hello."

"Just as planned, right?" Wriothesley did not account for two lovebirds in his equations, but if it helps others sleep at night, he might as well take responsibility. "I suppose they've also noticed the increased freight transport between the surface and Meropide."

"The clandestine tasks on your best and most loyal guards and workers also, but of course, you've hidden traces of your activities well," she nods. "How did you get Monsieur Neuvillette to agree?"

"I didn't," he answers easily. "He took one look at all the invoices and signed it off without asking what it was for."

Sigewinne looks at him thoughtfully. "He trusts you that much?"

"Don't you, Head Nurse?" Wriothesley grins when she pouts. "He has an idea what it's for, I'm sure, but he leaves me to my own devices and trusts that I will tell him if I need to. Right now, I don't. Anyway, thanks, this is plenty," Wriothesley sighs, standing up. "I might as well make the most of the day. then."

"Where are you heading now?"

Wriothesley gives her a passing smirk. "Where else?"

The Pankration Ring is open to anyone who knows how to fight, though competitors who wish to challenge His Grace personally are few and far between nowadays. The long-term residents know that he's always good for a fight in the ring they ask. Newer prisoners are scared, if not reverent, of his position as Administrator, and take some time warming up to the idea that they won't get sent to isolation if they manage to land a hit on the Duke of Meropide (not that he gives any of them a fighting chance to begin with).

Wriothesley arrives at the ring amidst a ring of happy cheers looming over an anticipated match. People make way for him, but most of them are too engrossed watching the match to even remember to pay respects to him, the guy who runs the place, which is just fine by him. He walks off to the side and bumps fists with Roussimoff, who tells him about the current bout that he walked into.

"We didn't expect to see you here today, Your Grace," Roussimoff says after the excitement regarding the match has petered down when the results are called, and the crowd gathered around the ring and dispersed into small groups. "You've been in and out of the Fortress a lot these days."

"I must be slacking if you're able to follow my tracks that easily," Wriothesley says thoughtfully, though he doesn't deny it. He has been in and out of the surface, for various reasons, and he knows he is surrounded by observant people, some of which may use his current preoccupation to their advantage.

"His Grace has jokes," Roussimoff laughs. "You're plenty diligent, especially after all the mess you had to clean up here from that unauthorized Gardemek disaster. That… I can't tell you how sorry we all are that you got involved in this mess to begin with. If there's anything you need, Your Grace…"

"Don't sweat it, you know that I'll always make time for you guys here." Wriothesley claps the man on the back. "But if you guys are really in the business of helping me, then you just need to make sure some of those young upstarts know better than to get any bright ideas that'll land them in hot water. They can play in my sandbox, but they still gotta follow the house rules."

Roussimoff sighs. "Your Grace, please believe me when I say that that was an unintentional oversight on our part. What kinda name is 'Iron Lion Team Arena Showdown', anyway? A damn mouthful."

Wriothesley snorts, amused. "Just double-check with me as soon as possible any time there's Gardemeks involved. I don't wanna have to have this conversation with you again."

"You best believe that I'll be drilling that into all their heads, Your Grace," Roussimoff says seriously, Wriothesley has no qualms about that kind of promise from a man as loyal and hardworking as Roussimoff. If anything, he takes his job as the primary caretaker of the Pankration Ring very seriously, and Wriothesley continues to hold him to a high standard.

"Glad to hear it." He nods. And now, to the next business. "How are our new guests doing?"

"There's been a few tough cookies sniffing around, but they realize quickly that they're not gonna get anywhere here." Roussimoff hums, crossing his arms. "They've been asking around. Lots of questions, even Wosley gets the brunt of it and he almost chased them out of the cafeteria after they tried to poke around Bran's programming. They gossip more than those old folks that hang around and drink coffee by the cafeteria almost every day."

It hammers in the point that he must be as careful as he's always been. Even Fatui spies are watching him in his own house, and it's not a thought that he wants to foster in a house full of criminals.

"Well, don't be shy now," Wriothesley encourages.

Roussimoff shrugs. "Have you ever heard of that famous blonde traveler that they've been writing about on the Steambird lately?"

"I read a little bit," he says. "Last I checked, they were wandering around in Sumeru."

"Well, they say that the Traveler and their little friend just left the main city," Roussimoff says conspiratorially. "Heard Nizami talking about them – you know, that Eremite guy by the lift? He said before he got sent to the Fortress, his brothers had been in the desert keeping an eye out for them in case they stopped by their camp. Said they're not friendly to most Eremites."

"Most Eremites aren't friendly to travelers," Wriothesley points out, "even though there are exceptions."

"Well, yeah," Roussimoff waves that off. "But do you think the Traveler's going to Fontaine? That's all everyone's talking about these days."

Everyone – including little Fatui spies, it seems. "If they are, I doubt they'd make their way to the bottom of the ocean unless they do something to piss someone off."

And yet, Wriothesley thinks it's only a matter of time until he gets to meet the Traveler themselves. If the Steambird is to be believed, the Traveler makes waves wherever they go, a harbinger of great upheaval within a nation and contesting the use of such a title against the Fatui's finest generals. That's exactly the kind of person that will inevitably get thrown in the Fortress.

"Anyway, those folks got a hold of the Fortress rumors, much faster than we thought," Roussimoff follows up. "They started asking around about some of them."

"Oh? They brought in the smart ones, then." 

"Nah, just the nosy ones, tough to hold off once they get going," Roussimoff chuckles."Anyway, what's a few busybodies in close quarters? We'll get them up to speed soon enough, but you best be ready for a bumpy ride."

"I appreciate it," Wriothesley says with full sincerity. "I don't always have time to babysit."

"Basking in the sunshine, have you? Gotta learn to step back," Roussimoff advises. "No need to get overcooked when you're out having fun in the sun. And if you don't mind me pointing out, Your Grace, aren't Cryo visions supposed to cool you down if you get too close to the heat? You don't need to burn, you just gotta know how to take the heat."

"Roussimoff, can I just say how much of a fucking delight you are to be around." Wriothesley claps the man on the back once again. "Tell me the truth, now: have you been writing on those fortune cookies?"

"Say, I've always wondered: how old are you?"

From his seat on the other end of the couch, Neuvillette stops writing. "Would you ask a lady her age?"

"I don't see any ladies here."

"Hm, I believe this concerns your particular devotion to gaining my trust so that you may finally learn my true identity. I am aware of the challenge you and Sigewinne have bet on, with regards to myself," he adds with a spectacularly fancy raise of his eyebrows. "I have thought this through during our time together, and I've concluded that you've set up a system of mutual trust between us so that you may glean useful information directly from me."

Damn. Wriothesley barks out a laugh. "You should be a detective."

"I believe my talents lie elsewhere," Neuvillette says serenely. "Would you not agree?"

Wriothesley smiles, amused. "Talents like skillfully avoiding questions."

"I have been watching a master at work," Neuvillette gives him a significant, pointed look, "and I had a thought to try and emulate him."

"Flatterer," Wriothesley teases, but he gets the message loud and clear: this is a question he'll have to answer for himself. But saying things out loud in thought doesn't count as questions, right? "In the meantime, I suppose I'll need to rely on the history books instead."

"Or fairytales?"

"You remember," Wriothesley says, pleased.

"It is heartening to see such a worldly Duke leading our fortress. You're a man of many interests, it seems," Neuvillette notes with a thrum of approval – but not surprise. He's seen the books in Wriothesley's office, after all, even when he politely demurs and claims that they are only products of recent ownership.

"Well, let's see." Wriothesley taps a pen to his chin. "Older than four hundred years, at least. There are a couple of historical accounts detailing your arrival in the city proper, followed by the migration of several Melusines inside the Court, and how that started a massive slew of reforms. Oh, and I asked Sigewinne."

"Why the sudden interesting historical accounts?"

"It just pays to be more cognizant of one's origins, in my opinion," he says. "The more I look into the past, the more I see what the future will hold. Gossip about the prophecy was already in full swing by the time you entered Court, wasn't it?"

"It was," Neuvillette says somberly. "Though it was only talked about in passing, mostly. Several people and organizations, like the progenitors of the Fontaine Research Insititute, took it a bit more seriously – both for the worse and the better – on the off-chance that the prophecy was indeed real based on the rising sea levels, and the known history of the former civilization we now stand over. Alain Guillotin was one such example, and later on, Edwin Eastinghouse would take up that role until the demise of the Institute."

The look Neuvillette gives him then is unfathomable. After their conversation last time, does he consider Wriothesley a part of this group of intelligent madmen? Wriothesley considers reassuring him that his penultimate goal is to avoid catastrophe, not chase after it, but once was already enough.

Regardless, there's no need to exert effort in something they both know already.

"Did you know that the Fortress of Meropide wasn't built to be a prison, but to be a home to those that no longer had one?"

"I am aware of its origins," Neuvillette admits, "but I do not have all the facts. Some of the finer details have been lost at sea."

"That's why you prefer to call it a 'gathering place' for exiles," Wriothesley says. "Regardless of the name, it's a place where sinners go. It is a prison."

"I suppose it can be both."

"Being a 'sinner' implies that we will be absolved of our sins and be cleansed anew by some higher power, and I guess the prophecy does allude to that — after the unwanted drowning, of course," Wriothesley says. "I just wonder what the Hydro Archon has to say about that." He turns to Neuvillette with a smile, before the man gets the chance to respond. "I wonder. If you're human like us, then you'd be dissolved into the sea along with the rest of us. Isn't that interesting, though?"

Neuvillette blinks. "What is?"

"That the man who passes the guilty verdict could also be a sinner just like the rest of us. Us theater enthusiasts love to call that dramatic irony, which is just the kind of theatrical nonsense that the Hydro Archon herself might enjoy." He tilts his head thoughtfully. "But why would a god put a sinner to judge other sinners in the first? That's a question that might get interesting answers if you're human, right?"

Neuvillette has settled his pen down on his thigh and curled his fingers together over his knee. Wriothesley considers that a win, but he keeps going. "On the flip side, if you're not human, then you are something else," he asserts. "Better or worse than an Archon and a god, who knows – but someone completely different altogether. Born without sin, which is why you can pass judgment over us, next to a literal divine creation — and your judgment hasn't ever faltered. What do you think?"

"...You should be a detective," Neuvillette echoes his earlier sentiments but doesn't answer. Wriothesley doesn't need it, anyway; the sheen of beguiled admiration in Neuvillette's eyes is enough. "A member of the Marechaussee Phantom, perhaps?"

"You flatter me. Again, if I may add. I can't possibly hold a candle to the innate skills of the Melusines." He never would have agreed, anyway, preferring the relative seclusion of the ocean floor. "I just read books; sometimes, they tell stories and the stories connect in some way that ends up making sense. Regardless, I'm only doing this because you don't answer some of my questions," he adds pointedly. "I wouldn't rely on my relatively low-effort guesswork otherwise. I prefer the truth, coming from you."

"It is not something I wish to say," Neuvillette replies. "But you are welcome to guess."

"Which is why," Wriothesley says, "I'm contradicting myself, and reading about you instead of asking you. Besides, you're enjoying this, aren't you? Watching me struggle for answers."

"It is very rare to see you falter," Neuvillette offers, teasing in all matters. "I've enjoyed getting to know you, in your way, while you indulge mine. I do not take all the knowledge I've acquired about you lightly, and I'm certain you feel the same. At the very least, I am also somewhat pleased to be the reason that you're able to rise to the surface once in a while, for work or otherwise. I also recall you saying that you enjoy basking in sunlight. Thus, altogether, I find this arrangement suited for both of us."

"That's very," romantic, indulgent, sweet, "kind of you."

"Is it?" Neuvillette says softly. "That would be rather human of me, wouldn't it?"

"Who says only humans could be kind?" Wriothesley asks lightly. "Different kinds of people can be anything they want to be – human or otherwise."

"We had a conversation on kindness once, didn't we?" Neuvillette recalls pensively. "Yours, specifically."

By the sea, Wriothesley remembers, when you handed me that Lumitoile. "I do."

"It has only ever been a human trait, to my knowledge, thus I attributed it to you," Neuvillette says. "Most creatures operate under the brutal mindset of following the natural order of hierarchy amongst other species. Humans are… an anomaly, in that sense."

"Scientists like to use the word 'evolved'."

"Perhaps," Neuvillette allows. "In that sense, while humans can become beasts, no beast can become human unless they have 'evolved' in some way and gained the capacity to absorb human traits like kindness, humility, and so forth. To be any other is to be an anomaly to your kind, and others. A person would be leading a very difficult life, knowing that."

"Huh," Wriothesley says. "That's a lot of words for: I don't know how to get along with others."

Neuvillette snorts suddenly, covering half his face with a gloved hand.

"Monsieur Neuvillette, please don't take this the wrong way," Wriothesley says, "but have you ever tried going outside?"

"Wriothesley," Neuvillette says his name seriously, and Wriothesley almost thinks he's in trouble for trying to be a smartass – but Neuvillette is smiling, amused, unprovoked, so very sweet. Wriothesley gets to keep his life, it seems, and the beatific smile that he's never seen grace Neuvillette's face before. "Please, get to the point."

"Since we're in the business of getting to know each other, I have a proposition," Wriothesley offers before courage leaves him. "I want to take you out somewhere right now. If you have time to indulge me, that is."

Neuvillette takes a cursory glance at the on the other side of the room, before laying the papers in his hand down on the table. "I have time for you," Neuvillette says without hesitation, once again the epitome of romantic one-liners without knowing it. "I will simply need to tell Sedene that I have plans for the evening. Where will you be taking me?"

Wriothesley grins. "You'll see."

Chapter Text

Looking back, a series of impulses bring Wriothesley to where he is now: meandering through the Fontainian countryside with Neuvillette. A sane person would not even believe in the possibility of it, but unbelievable things are named so by virtue of their very nature, and Wriothesley will never look a gift horse in the mouth. Wriothesley takes him to the outskirts of Liffey bordering the Court of Fontaine to a row of houses atop a hill overlooking the Court, a quiet, idyllic vision not often bothered by monsters and men.

Of course, if he had planned things out a little better, he probably would've preferred an outing that appealed more to Neuvillette's sensibilities… and schedule. Archons know that several individuals are probably cursing out the person who made Neuvillette cancel or reschedule them.

"You know your way here," Neuvillette remarks, cutting the comfortable silence between them.

"I find it a privilege to be able to walk in the light despite living in the darkness," Wriothesley answers him. "So when I get the chance, I go out and bask in the sun. Fontaine's pretty enough on the surface to make it worth it."

"It is a beautiful land," Neuvillette says softly.

"The water around us isn't bad either," Wriothesley adds, already aware of Neuvillette's preferences. "As long as it doesn't dissolve us to nothing, anyway."

"You mention that often enough," Neuvillette observes. "It seems you're almost certain that it will."

"I have many arguments to follow through with why I believe it," Wriothesley says, but he stops and puts a finger to his lips, fighting down a wide smile. "Not right now, though. Just follow me."

One house in particular seems enveloped by nature, surrounded by blooming sunflowers and lavenders, with rose vines crawling up the side of the house. Birds chirp as they pass, and the little automaton dog tilts its head in their direction before settling down in a comfortable crouch. Wriothesley absentmindedly taps it on the head as though it's a real dog before climbing up the front porch steps and knocking on the door.

The door opens to a lady of considerable age, looking up at Wriothesley with a pleased grin. "Your Grace, it's been a while," she greets him. Her eyes move from Wriothesley to his companion, and her shock becomes palpable. "Oh!"

"The Iudex and I are just here to visit," Wriothesley tells her.

"Of course," she nods. "Please wait here."

She heads back inside the house, and Wriothesley turns to Neuvillette. "I used to come here a lot," Wriothesley offers. "Her husband wasn't the nicest man in the world, let's just say. You'll remember him from the Baskerville case."

"With the hounds," Neuvillette recalls quickly. "He disputed an inheritance but chose attempted murder over court."

"Mm. He's still in the Fortress. His cousin took all the inheritance but gave the wife some financial support because he felt bad about what happened—and I say some, but the cousin was generous. She doesn't need to work anymore, but she likes gardening, so she has a deal with Emelie's perfume business."

Neuvillette's eyes dart to the door, "She is not her husband. She is free to do as she wishes."

"Yeah? Aren't you wondering why she lives here and not inside the Court?" Wriothesley watches Neuvillette think it over seriously. He is a ridiculously thoughtful man, all things considered. "Court can be isolating in its own way. People who know their way of life can't comprehend the way the world works from the outside. They keep to the bubble and push others out."

"I am aware," Neuvillette says softly.

"Yeah? I suppose you would," Wriothesley muses. Whatever else either of them might have said is lost to the wind as the lady of the house returns to the front door carrying two picnic baskets, both of which are overflowing with an assortment of food. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. I couldn't find anything bigger—"

"This is more than enough," Wriothesley assures her. "I'll send someone with the usual payment like always."

"And I'll be telling your courier to take on half of it, like always, since you won't take the mora," she replies sweetly. She looks at Neuvillette and smiles. "Thank you for accompanying him today, Monsieur Neuvillette. It would mean a lot to the children."

"...The children?" Neuvillette looks at Wriothesley after the lady closes the door.

Wriothesley smiles and puts a finger on his lips again. "What did I say? Just come with me!"

They end up in the northern farmlands of the Liffey region, on the sprawling site of open fields with the whole Court as its picturesque backdrop. On the field closest to them, Wriothesley spots several figures looming over a sprawled, unmoving automaton, clearly trying to figure out something in its functions. One of the younger ones looks up and, upon seeing him approach, starts waving frantically.

"Your Grace!" he yells out cheerfully. "We weren't expecting you!"

"Your Grace, your timing's just perfect!" a second man bellows happily. "This damn machine's—"

An older woman slaps his shoulder. "Have some damn respect, you brute. His Grace just arrived. He doesn't have time for your—"

"A break's long overdue, anyway," a fourth person interrupts, a calming presence that stops everyone in their tracks. "Your Grace, thanks for visiting again. The children will be happy; they've been asking around."

"Is it time for the picnic already?" The first person asks thoughtfully. "I can't recall…"

"I'm just a little ahead of schedule," Wriothesley responds amiably. "If you don't mind, I have an unexpected guest." He waves behind him, and all four heads turn to Neuvillette, who's been following Wriothesley at a more sedate pace, likely listening in to the conversation that erupted upon Wriothesley's arrival. Wriothesley has the pleasure of seeing four people shocked into silence, eyes bugged out and jaws on the floor. "I'm sure the kids would like to see him, too. Wanna let them know, Theo?"

He addresses the first man, who seems to be the most shocked of all. There's a brief pause, where someone aims a well-placed elbow on Theo's abdomen. Theo lets out a rough oof but catches himself in time. "Y-Yes, Your Grace. Of course! I'll get them right away!" He turns to Neuvillette. "I-It's good to see you, Mr Chief Justice, sir! Thank you for coming! I'll be right back!"

As he scrambles his way to the main farmhouse, the rest of them continue silently staring at each other, each person looking from one to the other, lacking the words to say regarding a situation that's been thrust upon them suddenly.

It is Neuvillette, of all people, who breaks the silence. "Allow me to express my gratitude for accepting our arrival with little notice. Wriothesley has mentioned a desire to take me here, however…" Despite knowing nothing, he remains courteous as ever, flustering the others into action as they talked over each other to reassure Neuvillette that it's no trouble and, indeed, an honor to have him. Wriothesley notices Neuvillette's shoulders loosen some, perhaps doing away with the idea that Wriothesley is out to humiliate him.

"Jerome, you said something's wrong with the clockwork meka?" He asks the second man quietly, who nods.

"Just stopped working all of a sudden. Right, Luc?" He nudges the third guy.

Luc crosses his arms, though he also nods. "We can fix most issues in the house, Your Grace, but clockwork meka is a lot more complicated than what we know. We've been trying to learn, though. Grace's been teaching us how to read the manuals," he nods at the lady currently talking Neuvillette's ear off, "but it's slow going. We aren't the best students, really," he adds wryly.

"I got it. Later, when I get back to the office, I'll assign someone to come teach you." Wriothesley claps them both on their shoulders. "How's it been? Quiet, I hope?"

"Mostly, sir," Luc replies. "We got a couple of rowdy kids, but they're not so bad. But—" He looks to Jerome for help.

"Got a couple of people sniffing about, but they don't really want anything to do with the farm," Jerome shrugs in answer. "No questions about you or the Fortress or any of the sort. They've asked how, uh, the water is, though."

"The water?" Wriothesley perks up a little. "What do you mean?"

"Just… how we use it, where we get," Jerome expands. "If we notice a dip or rise in quality, if we know how the wildlife is doing on the lakes. If the tide's been rising. Stuff like that. It reminds me of those scholar folks from the Research Institute, but they wear different uniforms. They don't look local, either, but what do I know? Never been out of Fontaine. Not sure from where—"

"Mr Wriothesley!"

"It's the Duke!"

"Mr Wriothesley, are you here for the picnic?!"

Everyone's attention is grabbed by the loud voices from the other side of the farm, a few miniature humans running through the open fields in frenzied excitement. Wriothesley himself can't help but smile, and only Luc's steady hand on his arm catches his attention again. His eyes stray toward and meet Luc's wary gaze.

"The Fatui have been around," Luc says in a low tone, confirming Wriothesley's suspicions. "They asked about the water—I think they're asking everyone in the country that—but also about the children."

Wriothesley's hackles instantly rise, but before he can respond, a solid weight crashes against his lower body. He lets out a loud oof as he tries to remain upright, holding steady onto the child wrapped around his legs like an octopus. Before long, the other children come barreling toward him, clinging to his body when they reach him.

He laughs, ruffling every child's head that he can reach. "Come on now, guys. It's not like I didn't see you all a while ago."

"We missed you!" says one child excitedly.

"We wanted another picnic again!" says another. "But we didn't wanna have one unless you were here!"

"Now we can! Can't we?"

All eyes turn to him at once, pleading.

"Alright, alright. We can go have a picnic." The happy children cheer all at once, but he quietens them down. "But before that, I have someone I want to introduce you all to. He's a guest, so don't scare him off, alright?" He ruffles another child's head before turning behind him, gesturing for Neuvillette, who has been watching from afar, to come closer. "Kids, you know who this is, right?"

"Oh!" one of the children gasps.

"You're Monsieur Neuvillette!" exclaims another, pointing at Neuvillette. "You're the Chief Justice!"

"No way!"

"Mr Wriothesley, he's your friend?!"

"Indeed I am," Neuvillette says, only a little awkward. "I am the Chief Justice and Wriothesley's… friend." He meets Wriothesley's gaze with a small smile. "It's my pleasure to meet you all."

"Are you gonna join us for the picnic?"

"Oh, please! Can you?"

"He'll come with us," Wriothesley says confidently. "So, play nice." He hands the basket he's been holding to Luc; from the corner of his eyes, he notices that Grace has already strong-armed Neuvillette's basket from his grasp a while ago. "We should probably set these up. I'll handle the meka while you guys do that; let me know when you're done."

Luc nods, gesturing for Grace and the kids to follow him. Jerome and Theo run back to the house, stating that they'll grab utensils and other dinnerware needed, leaving Neuvillette and Wriothesley alone for a while.

Neuvillette follows Wriothesley to the Nimble Harvester Mek shut down near the edge of the closest field. "You are very close to them," Neuvillette ventures. "If I may ask—"

"The adults were former residents of the Fortress, so they know me pretty well," Wriothesley says genially, though his main focus is on the automaton in front of him. "The children are all orphans. Under my recommendations, Grace and Jerome were able to adopt them after a few months or years suffering through the foster system."

Neuvillette startles at this, "Suffering?"

"Those kids," he sighs. "They're either children of criminals, or they came from the juvenile centers themselves."

Neuvillette is quiet for a moment. "They suffer through the system?"

"Orphanages don't always accept children with less-than-stellar backgrounds, and the foster system can be a harrowing experience for youths who require a steady home." He pulls a cord from the meka and examines it. "I don't trust a lot of people with kids, either. Not everyone is a nice and loving parent—and not every nice person can parent a child even if they want to."

"For that reason, you requested that I allow you to vet most recommendations when it comes to the orphans left behind by the criminal justice system." And he's done so multiple times, with no questions asked.

Wriothesley huffs a laugh, "I mean, you know my feelings about it."

"Yes, I understand."

"I visit these kids sometimes," Wriothesley says quietly.

"More than sometimes, if the children's enthusiasm is to be believed," Neuvillette observes. "They are fond of you. You've done them a lot of kindness." Neuvillette meets his eyes. "Is this what you want to show me? Your kindness knows no bounds, but I already know that to be true."

"Yes and no," Wriothesley says. He grunts as he continues to fiddle with the machine in front of him, pushing a couple of buttons. It hums, coming back to life slowly, but it hasn't yet moved. Wriothesley hears the few beeping sounds, the automaton rebooting its processing power. "What's that you told me? You said no beast can be human unless they can be kind. You said those  kinds of beasts are anomalies that can lead lonely lives."

"Yes," Neuvillette says slowly.

Wriothesley nods. "Hm-mm. Come back to me later with that." He rubs his hands together. "Okay, can you lend a hand with this? Just need it upright so I can—" Neuvillette does so, and together, they put the Nimble Harvester Mek back to rights. When Wriothesley turns it on again, it beeps relentlessly, scanning its surroundings. When it finally deems Wriothesley and Neuvillette to be friendly and non-threatening (as if), it beeps again before it rolls away and down the other end of the field so that it may begin its task anew. "Oh, good."

"I should not be surprised that you have personal knowledge of how to fix automatons," Neuvillette praises him.

"Comes with the territory, yeah," Wriothesley hums in agreement. "Thanks for the assist."

"Of course."

I'll get someone to come here and help them with the clockwork mekas, but fixing that up should be sufficient. Harvest season is right around the corner, and they'll need those machines in tip-top shape."

"Farming is their livelihood, then."

"One of the few jobs here that's easy enough to learn as long as you do hard work while maintaining distance from the main court, and Jerome's got the smarts for it," Wriothesley says. "Grace used to be a governess, so she's in charge of homeschooling the kids. Theo's too immature to be left alone. He's prone to peer pressure of all kinds, but he's happy to help here. Hopefully, he's found his purpose following Jerome's footsteps instead of wandering around Fleuve Cendre looking for shady work."

"And Luc?"

Wriothesley huffs. "Luc… he's good at most things he puts his mind to, really. He can be anything he wants, but he chose to stay here."

Luc returns to them at that exact moment. "Oh, hey, you fixed it," Luc says with a grin. "Thank you, Your Grace. That'll take a load off Jerome's shoulders. He's worrying about the harvest."

"You guys could call, you know," Wriothesley crosses his arms, half-amused. "You know how to get a hold of me or any of the Meropide guards. They know you."

Luc only briefly glances at Neuvillette, and with Wriothesley's nod of approval, he reluctantly admits, "We've just been worried. Jerome won't say it, not to your face—but new people coming around makes him nervous. The last time he felt like this was when he knew he was going to get into trouble for the things he used to do—this time, it's for the kids. He doesn't want any of them to know something's wrong."

"New people?" Neuvillette asks politely.

Wriothesley answers tightly, "Fatui."

"I see," Neuvillette says, and though his face shows nothing, the look he shares with Wriothesley is enough for him to understand how delicate the situation currently is. "Adding sufficient guards to the area would be seen as suspicious, wouldn't it?"

"Why guard the farmland so far away from the main city, Chief Justice?" Luc smiles. "No, we're normal people, living normal lives with normal kids. We get guests to ask too many questions sometimes, but what do we know? We're friendly people, so we answer what we can. We feed them one day and say goodbye the next, like good, honest folks." He turns to Wriothesley, however, with a slight frown. "Although it might be for the best that you don't show up here for some time in case they return."

"Gotcha," Wriothesley sighs.

"The kids will miss you, but it'll keep them all safe for now," Luc says, putting a hand on Wriothesley's shoulder. "Don't worry; I'll do that, too. I haven't forgotten that part yet." Finally, he nods to them both and tilts his head toward the other side of the farm, closer to the tree lines. "We gotta move, though. Picnic's ready, and the kids are waiting. They're being patient for you for once, Your Grace."

"Definitely not for me." Wriothesley laughs. "We'll be there."

"Am I to infer from that conversation that Luc is a fighter and can protect the others?" Neuvillette asks as they start meandering their way over to the picnic area, with Luc walking farther ahead than both of them.

"He… used to be a Meropide guard," Wriothesley admits quietly. "I won't tell you his story, but at the end of it, I gave him a choice. He picked this life for himself, and he's making the most of it, from what I can tell."

It's the height of the golden hour when Neuvillette and Wriothesley situate themselves by the end of the overly large picnic mat, surrounded by food and excited children. They enjoy themselves despite the silent, looming threat that hangs over Wriothesley's head. He'll think of ways to deal with the Fatui later.

In truth, Wriothesley spends most of the time watching Neuvillette interact with the children, seeing his sensitive nature on full display when dealing with young, overactive, impressionistic kids who have plenty of questions and no concrete response other than answering what their favorite things are. Wriothesley is instinctively reminded of how delicately he interacts with Melusines, who call themselves his daughters.

Love comes in all shapes and forms, weighted in words and actions. Little things and big things can both be done for and by love, even when beholden by duty. For someone so eager to call himself lonely, Neuvillette seems so full of the feeling that it encompasses his very nature and transcends his status to someone untouchable and pure of heart.

He now knows for sure that Neuvillette doesn't know what he looks like when he smiles.

Jerome slides next to him eventually, having wiggled away from his wife's side. "So, when's the wedding, Your Grace?"

"I'll smack you," Wriothesley deadpans.

"Monsieur Neuvillette, can I braid your hair?" one of the girls eagerly asks, jumping up and down next to the slightly bemused Iudex. "Mama Grace says I do a really good job!"

"Really, one of those kids is gonna propose to him next," Jerome points out, rolling his eyes when Wriothesley stubbornly shoves a piece of bread in his mouth instead.

Meanwhile, Neuvillette has agreed to allow the girls to touch his hair, which starts a small commotion on the other side of the picnic mat. All of the kids seem all too eager to make the best out of Neuvillette's acquiescence.

"I got eyes, you know."

"Stop being nosy and go back to your wife, Jerome," Wriothesley tells him with a lighthearted chuckle. "Whatever you see here, just keep it here—alright?"

Jerome gives him a skeptical look but decides it's not worth the fight. "Suit yourself," he shrugs. "But, just wanna remind you, in case you forgot—you don't bring people here even if you trust them—unless they're staying. Seems pretty cut and dry to me, knowing you trust the Chief Justice this much."

Neuvillette's braided hair is crooked but beautiful. Wriothesley tells him that as they get ready to leave. The picnic has all been packed up, and the sun has left the skyline, leaving behind the hazy purple trail behind a setting sun welcoming the evening's glow.

"Oh," Neuvillette says, wide-eyed. He brushes a hand down the braid delicately, almost frowning. "Thank you. They were insistent. I could not deny them."

"Why not?" Wriothesley asks.

"Why… would I?" Neuvillette looks at him. "They asked very nicely."

Wriothesley arches a brow. "You'd let people do things to you if they ask nicely?"

The mischievous tone of his voice is unmistakable, and even sweet Neuvillette blushes pink at the implication (Wriothesley is choosing to ignore the fact that Neuvillette is even aware that there's any implication to be had). "Please do not misconstrue my words," Neuvillette says. "I only mean to say that a child's naivete is not a difficult thing to indulge when their requests are sweet and harmless. I should not deny an innocent request that does nothing to ruin my day, especially if it delights them."

"They appreciate the gesture."

"You believe so?"

Wriothesley is quiet for a moment. "These children have been denied many things in life—some of which I can hardly say in front of polite company. A little kindness goes a long way for them."

"Is that why you come here?"

"Well, they know me, and they like me somehow," Wriothesley smirks. "Were you lonely today, Neuvillette?"

Neuvillette blinks at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Were you lonely?"

Neuvillette stares at him in that incomprehensible, bright-eyed way of his, searching between Wriothesley's own eyes as if he will have the answers to the world's most important questions. Wriothesley stares back, solid as stone, with a smile that delights in Neuvillette's silent inquiry—but he says nothing, just waiting as always for judgment to be rendered.

When Neuvillette turns away, he stares into the horizon with a faraway look, eyes stretched down the road they've walked from Court to here and perhaps even further beyond—as though the miles and miles of water could gather his thoughts for him.

"I," Neuvillette says, "was not lonely."

He turns his gaze back on Wriothesley.

Wriothesley keeps his smile and nods. "Okay, then." He stands up, brushing grass, leaves, and soil from his pants. He extends a hand to pull Neuvillette up. "That's good."

Slowly, Neuvillette takes his hand, and although he likely doesn't need the help, Wriothesley pulls him up and drags him close, their tangled hands holding on between their chests.

"A beast that 'evolves' and gains human traits, who can show kindness, generosity, and understanding like most humans do—they're not anomalies, and they're not alone," Wriothesley says softly. "They don't need to be lonely."

He squeezes Neuvillette's hand, and despite the urge to keep holding, he lets him go.

"You took her time returning from the surface."

In the midst of discarding his coat on his office chair's armrest, Wriothesley answers, "I had an appointment with the Iudex," he says smoothly. "It ran a little longer than usual."

"Really?" Sigewinne looks at him skeptically. "Monsieur Neuvillette is impeccable with his appointments."

"He needed to reschedule some of them, actually."

"Sedene said you both left the office. Where did you go?"

"Took him to the farmlands. I can tell it's not his favorite place, but he enjoyed it nonetheless." Wriothesley shrugs, looking at Sigewinne. "Is there a problem?"

Unless he's reading her wrong, there clearly is, as Sigewinne's face is marred with an uncharacteristic frown. There was a time when she would smile whenever he mentioned that he was seeing Neuvillette, eager to hear about him from Wriothesley. In such a short period, he wonders what changed—if it changed, if she'd always been trusting but wary if Neuvillette has said anything contrary to the attitude he shows to Wriothesley.

But Neuvillette wouldn't, couldn't—that much Wriothesley knows.

"I don't know," she says slowly, eyes bright with some knowledge he can't decipher just yet. "There are times when I don't know what you're thinking. Humans are curious to me… you, most of all."

"Not Neuvillette?"

"Depends if you believe that he's an ordinary human," Sigewinne replies flippantly. "But you already know more than most."

Wriothesley watches her. "Tell me, then."

She watches back. "Will you listen?"

"Try me."

She takes a deep breath. "Monsieur Neuvillette is important to me, to us," she emphasizes, and Wriothesley can only think that she means her sisters, the Melusines. To Fontaine, he is the second most important person in this nation. But he is… he is the father we Melusines do not have. We followed him here, and he protected us. In turn, we protect him—or we try. There is nothing more in this world that we want other than making sure he remains happy, safe, and loved."

Wriothesley tries not to grimace at the last word. "Neuvillette and I have gotten to know each other well. I respect him plenty—you know that. I'm not about to hurt him."

"Humans can't help but hurt others sometimes," Sigewinne remarks, oddly forlorn. "Whether by intent, by deceit, by omission, by accident… Your denial can't be a vow, or you'd break under the weight of your own words. And if he gets hurt, you'll get hurt, too."

Wriothesley inhales, "Sigewinne—"

"I trust you," she tells him. "But please—he's been alone for so long." How long? he wants to ask but refrains. He only nods. Her smile in response is cautious and brittle. "You can't even promise to be by his side forever, you know? You are human, after all."

"Neuvillette is not as fragile as you think."

"No," Sigewinne says. "But you are."